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OF 

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THE  LAYS 

of  a 


BOHEMIAN. 


BEING     SOME     OF     THE     METRICAL     CONCEITS 
OF 

SCOTT    R.    SHERWOOD. 


So,  when  my  Lays  before  the  Carp- 

My  leaves  unto  the  wind — 
I  fling,  remember  that  my  Harp 

Is  tuned  to  hymn  my  mind, 
In  mood  as  it  reflects  a  Soul— 

Not  your's,  but  God's  alone — 
Of  which  is  cradled  here  first  Foal,— 

If  needs,  let  God  atone! 

Bohemian  Song,  (p. 


BRENTANO    BROS.,    PUBLISHERS, 

NEW  YORK. 
5  UNION  SQUARE. 

CHICAGO  :  WASHINGTON  : 

101  State  Street.  1015  Pennsylvania  Av 


COPYRIGHT,  1885. 
BY  SCOTT  R.  SHERWOOD. 

All  rights  reserved. 


WOOD  &  BLONDEL   PRINTERS, 
NEW  YORK 


725 

•f 


TO   THE 

INSPIRATIONS  OF  THE  THOUGHT, 

AND  THE 

ASSOCIATIONS  OF  THE  NAME, 
OF 


G26053 


CONTENTS. 


PEOEM 1 

BOHEMIAN  SONG 5 

MY  DAY  OF  BEST 11 

MY  'SCUTCHEON 15 

A  POET'S  INTROSPECT 17 

YOUB  HEAVEN,  AND  MINE.  20 

FAITH 21 

MY  THANKSGIVING 23 

ILLUSION'S  LESSON 25 

ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 26 

ALTHAZAK'S  GIFT 28 

MEMORY'S  CHOICE 31 

MUSINGS  ;  FBOM  A  PHILOSOPHER'S  PORTFOLIO.    . .  32 

THE  PUZZLE.                                                            .  34 


CONTENTS. 

MY  SHEINE 37 

I  HAVE  BEEN  LOVED 39 

LOVE 42 

LOVE'S  PSYCHOLOGY.    44 

LOVE'S  BESPONSE 45 

THE  MISSING  NOTES 46 

OUR  TRYST 47 

Too  LATE * 50 

OF  WHAT  AVAIL?  51 

To  FLORA  (OF  THE  DEMI-MONDE.) 53 

MY  SPRING  is  HERE 54 

LOVE  HATH  NO  BOURNE 55 

ALTHAZAR'S  WOOING.  (A  LOVE  LETTER.) 57 

FATAL  HUE 60 

THAT  PORTRAIT— WHOSE  ?   62 

LOVE  ALONE  CAN  SAVE  THE  HEART;  (A  SONG.).   . .  63 

FRANCESCA'S  EEVERIE 66 

ALTHAZAR'S  MUSE.  (A  KEVERTE.) 68 

LOVE'S  GREETING 70 

A  THRILL 71 

MY  SANCTUM 72 

ALAS,  DEAR  WIFE  OF  MY  SOUL 74 

LOVE'S  BARD 76 

WE  MUST  LIVE  AGAIN 77 

OUR  HOLIDAY 78 

CONFECTION 79 

IN  MEMORIAM 80 

A  LOVER'S  HYMNAL 82 


CONTENTS. 

ALTHAZAR'S  MISSION 85 

BBOOK  No  KING 91 

MY  REVERENCE 94 

NOBLESSE  OBLIGE 97 

SOUL  SINISTER 101 

TRUST  NOT  APPEARANCES 102 

A  SHADE 107 

OCCULT 108 

Mis- ALLIED 110 

A  SIGH Ill 

FAIR  AND  FALSE 112 

FIRST  LOVE'S  ADIEU 114 

IT  CANNOT  BE.  (A  RESPONSE.) 115 

QUESTIONING 116 

I  FAIN  WOULD  SOFT  PREACH  HER 118 

NOVEMBER  TO  MAY 120 

BY  THE  SEA.  (To ,  A  COQUETTE.) 121 

SHE'LL  UNDERSTAND 124 

MY  HOSTAGES 127 

BONBONTERE 131 

A  FEW  CARRIER  MOULTTNGS. 

AGE  MATTKRS  NOT  TO  ME 133 

SHE  WOULD  NOT  WAIT 133 

No  TIDING 134 

A  TANG  LEAF 134 

DEPENDING  UPON  CIRCUMSTANCES 135 

A  VALENTINE.    ,  ..138 


CONTENTS. 

THE  PORTENT 141 

Two  ANTIQUARIAN  MODELS. 

I.— His  ST.  VALENTINE'S  ODE— To  His  GRANDSON 134 

n.— HER  ST.  VALENTINE'S  ODE— To  HER  QRAND-DAUOHTER.    . .     144 

JENNIE  BRADSHAW 145 

AMONG  THE  RECRUITS 151 

THE  MERCENARY  WOMAN 154 

HE  CAN  PLAY  ON  THE  PIANO 156 

SACREDLY  INVESTED 157 

To  MY  CRITIC 159 

NOTES.  .     165 


PROEM. 


Apollo's  hest, 

In  hour  of  rest, 
To  tune  and  strike  my  lyre, 

There  obey — 

The  dull  work-day 
Abandoning  for  higher 

Paths  than  are  trod 

By  crown  or  clod 
In  sequestrated  home — 

My  fancies  free 

From   apogee 
To  flood  to  reckless  roam — 

Slue  skies  to  skim, 

Broad  oceans  swim, 
Bold  mountain  crests  surmount ; 

Through  forests  glide — 

On  Phoebus  'stride — 
Nor  verse,  nor  metre  count, 

Since  weed  and  floss 

Each  other  cross 
In  all  life's  journey  through — 

Faint  to  descry 

Dull  human  eye 
The  false  from  that  is  true. 


My  Day  of  Rest, 


To  my  adored — the  themes 

My  heart  approves 

Or  spirit  moves — 
Of  thought  the  fruit,  or  dreams — 

I  sing,  and  sing — 

Aye  wandering — 
By  no  restrictions  bound, 

Content  to  soar 

Or  fall,  not  more 
Responding  for  than  found. 

My  hours  I  choose 

In  sweet  recluse 
For  meditation's  gifts, 

When  dulcet  spring 

The  chimes  that  ring 
From  grander  domes  and  rifts 

Than  steeples  pierce, 

Or  bishops,  fierce, 
With  bulls  and  canons  reach — 

The  domes  that  glow 

With  sacred  flow 
From  Lights  Jove's  Essence  preach. 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN. 


BOHEMIAN   SONG. 


BOHEMIAN    SONG. 


I  am  a  true  Bohemian; 

I  scoff  at  rote  or  rule — 
Deem  myself  good  as  any  man, 

No  more  or  less  a  fool — 
Live  where  I  am,  fare  as  I  may — 

Am  pleased  with  any  lot — 
Remember  friends,  and  never  lay 

A  grudge  for  them  are  not. 

I  love  fair  face,  wherever  met; 

Sweet-heart  I  love  still  more, 
And  pity  all  who  never  yet 

Of  pity  have  found  store ; 
For  love  and  pity  true  are  kin, 

And  all  my  sorrow  here 
Is  for  the  many  never  win 

From  fellow-kind  a  tear. 


BOHEMIAN  SONG. 

I  favor  give  to  them  I  like, 

And  take  from  them  who  please 
To  give  to  me  because  I  strike 

As  one  who  can  appease 
The  wish  of  sympathy — that  glows 

In  every  human  heart, 
Yet  fondest  utterance  bestows 

On  like's  responsive  part. 

I  press  my  views  on  no  man's  glass, 

Nor  reflect  his  from  mine, 
Since  God's  intent,  'tis  plain,  alas ! 

For  reasons  wise,  divine, 
"Was  not,  in  his  broad  universe, 

To  make  twin  moon  or  sun, 
Two  minds  to  think,  two  bards  to  verse, 

Two  hearts  to  beat — as  one. 

I  drink  the  breezes  softly  waft, 

And  gratefully  exhale; 
With  awe,  the  lightning's  gleam  and  shaft 

Watch,  flashing  through  the  gale; 
Yiew,  pensively,  the  torrents  roar, 

The  waves,  mid-ocean,  toss, 
The  stars  the  azure  gemming  o'er, 

And  feel  there  is  no  loss. 


BOHEMIAN  SONG. 

Aye !  Everything  to  me  is  gain, 

For  everything  seems  new — 
And  always  new,  tho'seen  again, 

And  grand,  from  any  view, 
Because  a  true  Bohemian 

Am  I,  and  make  my  nest 
Where'er  I  chance,  and  let  no  man 

Abridge  my  heart's  behest — 

To  rove  the  desert,  sail  the  seas, 

Mid'  waste,  or  peopled  town — 
Oft  lingering  in  climes  where  freeze 

The  veins,  or  insects  drown — 
In  humming  myriads — the  air, 

Imbred  by  torrid  wave, 
Or  in  old  sepulchres  that  glare 

With  stones  the  eras  lave. 


And  wheresoe'er  I  stray  or  wait, 

Or  tarry,  feast,  or  love, 
4.t  matin's  dawn,  or  vesper  late, 

I  never  care  to  move 
One  pace  beyond  where  I  may  rest, 

Or  rise,  or  list,  or  hie — 
Since  every  line  my  lot  the  best 

For  me,  e'en  when  I  die. 


BOHEMIAN   SONG. 


So,  when  my  Lays  before  the  Carp — 

My  leaves  unto  the  wind — 
I  fling,  remember  that  my  Harp 

Is  tuned  to  hymn  my  mind, 
In  mood  as  it  reflects  a  Soul — 

Not  your's,  but  God's  alone — 
Of  which  is  cradled  here  first  Foal, 

If  needs,  let  God  atone  ! 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN. 


I. 


Now  calm  reflections  rule  the  hour — 

Our  thoughts  upraise  to  heights 
Whence  soar  the  truths  that  brightly  flower, 

Amid  earth's  wastes  and  blights, 
To  teach  the  grandeur  of  the  soul, 

Reveal  our  better  part, 
Lift  from  the  quicksand  and  the  shoal 

Of  life  the  surging  heart. 


Poef  s  Introspect,  (Page  17). 


MY  DAY  OF  REST.  11 


MY  DAY  OF  KEST. 


My  day  of  rest  is  not  constrained  by  special  creed; 

No  sect,  assuming  God's  prerogative,  my  grace 
May  claim;  denominations,  none  a  title-deed 

Can  forge  to  swerve  my  conscience  from  its  altar- 
place. 

My  Sabbath's  recreation,  as  befits  my  mood, 

Is  found  beneath  the  shelter  of  my  tree  and  vine, 
Where  my  best  hopes,  desires,  all  that  in  me  is 

good 

Plead    my  true  cause  most  potently  to    Eye 
Divine. 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  my  oaks,  whose  stature  grand, 
Whose  massive  trunks,  far-reaching  limbs,  and 

foliage  dense 

Have  spread  a  canopy,  contrived  by  nature's  hand, 
Behold  my  church — of  broadest  trust,  of  least 
pretense. 


12  MY  DAY  OF  REST. 

No  architect  my  temple  has  been  hired  to  build; 
For  it  no  priests,  from  rich  or  poor,  alms  beg  or 

force; 

At  eve,  or  mass,  ne'erless,  with  worshipers  are  filled 
Its  corridors,  aisles,  naves — with  a  sublime  con- 
course 


Of  myriads  of  moving,  breathing  miniatures — 
Of    God's  conceptions  living    semblances — de- 
signed 
For  spheres  as  useful  and  complete  as  earth's  or 

your's, 
Tho'  not  to  rituals  conformed  or  rites  confined. 


I  draw  my  inspiration — my  encouragement 

In  my  deep  faith — from  all  these  varied  forms, 

the  orbs 
Which  give  them  life  and  heat,  the  clouds  their 

nourishment, 
The  soil  that  all  our  being,  effort,  hope  absorbs. 


My  choir — the  strain  of  birds,  the  droning  of  the 

bees, 

The  frog's  bass-croak,  the  hoot-owl's  monody, 
the  low 


MY  DAY  OF  REST.  13 

Of  kine,  the  bleat  of  lambs,  tlie  neigh  of  steeds,  the 

breeze 

That  wafts — e'er  sigh   or  moan — as  winds  or 
zephyrs  blow. 

My  preacher — a  wee  child,  who  innocently  sings 
Her  tuneful  carol,  plucking  daisies  from  the  green, 

Or  gambols  with  her  kitten,  or  in  hammock  swings 
So  cheerily,  I  peer — at  risk  of  being  seen. 


As  sheltered  by  a  fir,  I  scan  her  face,  and  eyes 
Of  violet— beaming  thought  and  love — to  heav'n 

turned, 
So  'rapt  her  spirit  seems  beyond  the  stars  would 

rise, 

She  frames  a    sermon    wisely-lessoned,  if  not 
learned. 


My  little  priest — inspired  by  nature's  soulful  text — 
Exhales    an   incense   sweet  with  Faith,   Hope, 

Charity;— 
How  happy,  all  mankind,  like  her!     How  rarely 

vexed 

Their   courses,   could   they   guileless   dwell   in 
parity! 


14  MY  DAY  OF  REST. 

If  I  nor  bow,   nor  bend  my  knee,  nor  clasp   my 

palms 
In  prayer,   I  feel   a  yearning   which  God  may 

have  read 
With  his   omniscient   eye: — For  all  I  crave   the 

balms 

Our  purest  years  would  yield  the  living  and  the 
dead. 


The  wish  divine  doth  spring — so  tenderly,  I  pray  : 
Yon  spotless  soul,  irradiating  gentleness, 

All  gladness,  mercy,  good  the  young  alone  display, 
May  virtue  guard,  truth  save,  and  circumstances 
bless ! 


MY  'SCUTCHEON.  15 


MY  'SCUTCHEON. 


My  'Scutcheon  is  my  Heart — 

Borne  close  within  my  breast, 
Whence  it  can  none  impart — 

Save  me — its  seal  and  crest; 
Its  priv'lege  ne'er  to  start 

At  aught  save  God's  behest — 
It  is  a  kingly  chart, 

Aye  serving  me  the  best. 

It  is  my  mark  and  sign — 

My  mark  and  sign  alone; 
For  ev'ry  error  mine 

It  only  can  atone; 
To  me  the  Eight  Divine 

Within  its  tendrils  grown; 
And  no  man  may  opine 

If  it  be  mild  or  stone. 


MY 'SCUTCHEON. 

My  father  could  not  give — 

It  came  to  me  from  God. 
My  son  I  cannot  leave 

"When  I  beneath  the  sod. 
For  me  it  may  conceive 

Alone — or  soothe,  or  prod, 
Or  hate,  or  love,  or  grieve — 

Control'd  by  no  man's  nod. 


As  no  two  things  alike, 

Or  ever  known  to  be — 
Beware !  The  hand  would  spike 

The  coat  design'd  my  tree. — 
Beware !  "Who'd  dare  to  strike 

From  me  its  blazonry. — 
Beware !  Who'd  forge  a  dike 

To  stem  its  floods — e'er  free ! 


A  POET'S  INTROSPECT.  17 


A  POET'S  INTKOSPECT. 


How  varying  the  moods  that  move 

The  pulses  of  the  brain — 
Through  chords  supremely  touched  by  love, 

Or  frets  with  hate  that  strain — 
Through  meditation's  solemn  trance 

Or  fancy's  lightsome  pace, 
As  pranks  and  humors  lead  the  dance 

Or  with  vagaries  chase. 

Now  calm  reflections  rule  the  hour — 

Our  thoughts  upraise  to  heights 
"Whence  sown  the  truths  that  brightly  flower, 

Amid  earth's  wastes  and  blights, 
To  teach  the  grandeur  of  the  soul, 

Reveal  our  better  part, 
Lift  from  the  quicksand  and  the  shoal 

Of  life  the  surging  heart. 


18  A  POET'S  INTEOSPEGT. 

Then  sweet  emotions,  tinged  divine 

By  heaven's  chast'ning  breath, 
Throb  o'er  the  arbors  that  entwine 

Our  hopes — in  lif e  and  death, 
Yield  blossoms  that  enchant  and  thrall, 

Waft  perfumes  that  diffuse 
Love's  subtle  incense  throughout  all 

The  harpiugs  of  the  muse. 

Next,  brief  conceits  the  mind  invade 

And  capture  to  express 
Trite  theories,  or  theses  staid, 

Or  clamors  for  redress 
Of  wrongs  and  errors  by  the  plane 

Of  worldly  squares  and  rules, 
Not  heeding  how  diseased  the  grain 

Of  sense  in  human  fools-. 

Or  chirping  fancies  frisk  and  leap 

From  idle  whims,  and  seize 
The  effervescing  thoughts  that  sweep 

The  skies,  o'er  gale  or  breeze — 
Or  whirl  with  eddies,  buff  with  tide, 

Or  pierce  the  vapid  mists, 
Or  in  the  coach  of  humor  ride, 

Or  mime  in  comic  lists. 


A  POET'S  INTROSPECT.  19 

Or  bubbling  quirks  the  surface  rise, 

To  ripple  for  a  trice, 
And  bring  a  smile  to  saddened  eyes — 

A  moment  loose  the  vice 
That  shuts  from  sympathy  its  -kin 

Or  fellowship  with  mirth — 
Evoking  transports  that  begin 

To  mold  athwart  their  birth. 

Of  wild  caprices,  with  their  fumes 

And  vapors,  wierdly  glow 
Above  the  hum  of  labor's  looms, 

Yet  far  the  stars  below — 
In  frolic  verse,  or  rollic  rhyme, 

"Wild  warbles  fife,  or  freaks 
Fantastically  ring  on  chimes, 

'Mid  laughter's  gleeful  shrieks. 

Or  satire,  musing  Damascene, 

Hypocrisy  lays  bare, 
And  falsehood  pricks  with  blade  so  keen 

That  honesty  seems  fair, 
Sweet  virtue  for  a  moment  blest — 

Alike  for  drones  and  plods, 
Rare  truth  aroused  from  stubborn  rest, 

The  scale  of  justice  God's. 


20  YOUR  HEAVEN,  AND  MINE. 


YOUR   HEAVEN,  AND   MINE. 


Your  bliss  in  hope  subsists,  in  contemplation  mine; 
Your  paradise,  of  fruits  to  bear,  a  vision  grows, 
While  on  my  past  the  radiance  of  heav'n  bestows 

A  charm — illu'ming  garlands  oft  the  tombs  entwine. 

Supremest  joy  to  me  experiences  reveal — 

In    friendship,  that   shall,    with   my    faculties, 

endure — 
In  love,  haloed  by  confidences  that  ensure 

A  trust  so  perfect  no  vague  myst'ries  may  conceal. 

Seek,  if  you  please,  in  the  hereafter  your  repose; 

But  strive  not  me  to  wean  from  my  content. 

On  raptures  felt  my  reverie  can  dwell  intent — 
Not  heeding,  through  the  shades,  what  life   doth 
not  disclose. 


FAITH.  21 

FAITH. 


Every  thing  and  thought  doth  breed — 

Sure  as  man  or  beast; 
Not  a  breath  our  pulses  speed 

Dies,  e'en  life  hath  ceased. 

*  *  * 

Every  blessing,  for  its  meed 

Grateful  thrill,  at  least; 
Every  sorrow  by  the  seed 

Of  cruelty  increased; 
Every  penny  lost  to  greed 

Some  poor  waif  doth  feast; 
Every  whim,  tho'  none  may  heed, 

Hath  some  fate  capriced. 

Landscapes  grand,  and  glowing  skies 

From  the  canvass  spring; 
Yearning  hearts,  and  soulful  sighs 

Muses  move  to  sing; 
Deeds,  from  noble  thoughts  that  rise, 

Eloquence  doth  wing; 
Tyrant's  heel,  and  heroes'  cries 

Freedom's  echo  bring. 

Guillotine  and  gibbet  spawn 

Criticism's  staves; 
From  the  nightly  flagon  dawn 

Thieves,  assassins,  knaves; 


FAITH. 

Wanton  souls  and  bodies  fawn 

Dens  that  mis'ry  laves, 
Bitterer,  with  tears,  than  drawn 

E'er  by  hallowed  graves. 

In  our  dream,  or  waking  trance — 

Joys  and  dreads  intense; 
Yield  the  race,  the  chase,  the  dance 

Foils  for  reason's  fence; 
Not  a  movement  or  a  glance 

Void  of  consequence; 
Gleams  a  ray  the  sun's  bright  lance — 

Cast  a  shadow  thence. 


Yet  o'er  heaven's  necromance 

Spreads  a  vail  so  dense, 
None  may  know  if  Supreme  Chance 

Guideth  more  than  Sense. 


MY  THANKSGIVING. 


MY  THANKSGIVING. 


Thanks  to  my  Heart ! — It  grateful  drinks  God's  air — 

Quick-throbbing  to  the  glance  of  love,  and  voice 
Of  liberty — all  things  beholding  fair 

In  nature,  and  in  man — when  doth  rejoice 
Man  in  his  manhood,  scorning  all  untruth, 

When  from  injustice  quiver  and  recoil 
His  thoughts,  and  when  he  doth  defy,  not  ruth 

Of  words  or  blows,  the  touch  would  virtue  soil. 

Thanks  to  my  Soul ! — Content  it  lingers  here — 

From  the  productive  soil  of  this  rich  earth 
Gleaning  the  food — the  sweets  no  other  sphere 

Can  wean  me  from  before  my  second  birth 
May  follow  all  I  know  of  life  or  death, 

Or  care  to  know  of  things  beyond  my  life, 
Whose  fitful  scenes,  and  thoughts  and  acts — each 
breath 

New  drawn — prove  me  with  little  knowledge  rife. 

Thanks  to  my  Body  ! — It  would  not  ascend 
To  sun,  or  moon,  or  twinkling  star,  or  soar 

Beyond  sparks  visible,  or  yet  descend 

The  bowels  of  the  world,  to  mine  and  score 


24  M Y  THANKSGIVING. 

The  notches  by  which  greed  would  aid  me  gain 
The  luxuries  to  mark  me — from  my  kind — 

A  gilded  something  set  apart  to  stain 
And  blot  the  true  fraternity  of  mind ! 

Thanks  to  my  Senses ! — All  of  them  revolt 

At  ev'ry  custom  that  impedes  their  right 
To  make  my  lot  a  joy,  or  that  would  molt 

My  freedom  to  indulge — false  caste  despite — 
The  fruits  of  labor,  love  and  honest  toil, 

And  to  resent  perversion  of  God's  law 
By  superstition's  torch,  or  tyrant's  coil 

Alluring  man's  cupidity  and  awe. 

Thanks  to  Myself ! — I  am  that  which  I  am — 

Nothing  higher  or  lower,  more  or  less — 
Nothing  shorter  or  taller,  tho'  you  damn 

My  size,  or  criticise  my  shape,  and  guess 
I  might,  or  ought  to  think,  or  do,  or  seem 

The  very  opposite  of  that  I  love 
The  best — MY  OWN  TRUE  SELF,  the  which  can  gleam 

But  one  Light  e'er  eclipsing — that  of  JOVE  ! 


ILLUSION'S  LESSON.  25 

ILLUSION'S  LESSON. 


Empty  as  an  echo, 

Hollow  as  a  sound, 
Ev'ry  thought  and  action 

Cjompass'd  by  the  bound 
Of  this  world's  horizon, — 

Nor  will  e'er  be  found 
Truth,  save  fate  hath  somewhere 

Brook'd  of  hallow'd  ground. 

Ev'ry  cloud  that  crosses 

The  ethereal  blue, 
Ev'ry  wind  that  courses 

Plain  or  forest  through, 
Carryeth  delusion — 

Howsoe'er  we  view 
Cause  or  aim — illusion 

Hiding  all  is  true; 

Making  sweet  with  incense 

What  is  often  blight; 
Honest  feeling  intense 

To  defeat  the  right; 
Pious  vows  a  pretense 

To  obscure  the  sight; 
Life,  but  experience — 

Teaching  :  "  God  is  Might." 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS. 
ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS. 


I. 
How   dwarf 'd   and  paltry   seem   the   ways,    how 

cramp'd  the  views  of  men, 
Their  poverty  of  scope  how  mean,  their  aims 

how  desultore, 
As  from  the  boulder' d    mountain's    cleft    my 

thoughts,  untrammel'd,  soar 
A  moment  toward  Infinity,  then  droop  below  again ! 

n. 

Oh !  That  I  might  here  plant  my  hearthstone — far 

above  the  clouds, 
My  home  might  rear  behind  the  mists  envailing 

man's  trite  schemes, 
My  poor  desires  uplift  to  where  my  life  would 

flit  in  dreams 

Far  sweeter  than  the  pleasures  that  delude  earth's 
fickle  crowds ! 

m. 

Or  that  I  might,  o'er  ocean  thence,  be  borne — to 

island  lone, 
My  bark  abandon  there  enwrecked,  fast  foun- 

der'd  in  the  sand, 
By  surf  encircled  evermore,  so  should  my  heart 

withstand 

Blind  passion's  petty  groveling — in  envy's  emmet 
zone! 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS.  27" 

IV. 

Cast  me  amid  the  waves  and  breakers,  'neath  the 

lightning's  glare, 
If  they  may  serve  emancipate  me  from  earth's 

tiring  jars 
And  bickerings,  so  waste  that — no  less  by  sun's 

blaze,  than  stars' 

Pale  gleam,  on  life  at  rest — man's  labor  seems  of 
fruit  shorn  bare ! 

V. 

No  prize  the  world  can  designate  to  tempt  ambi- 
tion's greed, 
Or  opiates  the   subtlest  skill   extract  to  sense 

beguile, 
Can  charm  me  from  this  crest,  whence  leaps  my 

soul  tow'rd  heaven's  smile — 
Spreading  so  omnipresently,  revealing  all  I  need. 


ALTHAZARS  GIFT. 

ALTHAZAR'S   GIFT. 

There  is  an  intuition  in  the  minds  of  some  so  keen 
It  seems  a  direct  gift  from  God — by  which   are 

read  the  signs 
That  mark  the  inner  hearts  of  other  men — through 

which  are  seen 

The  motives  of  their  surface  acts — their  souls' 
work  and  designs. 

What  by  Althazar's  circle  oft  is  termed  satiety 
Is  but  his  native  shrinking  from  the  traits  he 

doth  surprise 

In  his  own  kith — retarding  quest  of  their  society 
Or  haunts — their  conflicts  or  their  friendships — 
aid  or  enterprise. 

A  glance — by  others  unobserved:  a  frown,  a  curve, 

a  bend; 

A  voice — its  modulation  or  inflection;  simplest  gait 
Or  gesture;    e'en  a  posture,  or  an  attitude,  will 

send — 

As  if  clairvoyantly — to  his  quick   consciousness 
its  fate. 

'Tis  not  a  gift  to  prove  its  owner  less  than  his  poor 

kind 
A  man,  or  more  a  god;  nor  is't  a  gift  to  make 

one  proud, 

As  evidence  of  higher  faculty  of  soul  or  mind ; 
But  'tis  a  gift  that  may  not  be    contemned, 
where'er  endowed. 


ALTHAZARS  GIFT.  29. 

If  'tis  a  cheerful  boon,  Althazar  never  vauntingly 
Confesses  it;   for  it  hath  made  him  strange  and 

reticent 
When  he  would  not  seem  so.      Despite  himself,  it 

tauntingly 

Hath  warned  him,  thus  :    "  How  guilty   they ! 
This  one,  how  innocent !  " 

"  Gentle,  the  heart  there  masked  by  face  of  cold 

severity; 

"Loving  and  kind,  that  frugal  pair  so  queru- 
lously plod; 

"  Generous,  he  admonishing  with  such  asperity; 
"  Deep-stirred  with  faith,  yon  pleader  who  de- 
clines to  sue  your  God. 

"  Cruel  and  vain  is  that  dispenser  of  sweet  charity; 
"False,   this  unctuous  wearer  of  the  church's 

livery ; 

"Base  and  designing,* yonder  patriot — with  rarity 
"  Of  eloquence,   a  franchise   wins  each  word's 
delivery." 

In  ev'ry  human  phase,  Althazar's  cleverness  detects 
The  outward  indices  of  the  real  inwardness;  true 

worth 
From  shams  and  counterfeits  discries;  from  visible 

effects 

The   cause  of    men's  perversion    traces — ante- 
dating birth. 


30  ALTHAZARS  GIFT. 

Tho'  his  quick  impress  may  debar  man's  fellowship, 

methinks 
Althazar  may  have  won  a  closer  fellowship  with 

God. 
At  all  events,  God's  haunts  are  his — God's  breath 

his  bosom  drinks, 

Expires,  nor  feels  the  privilege  of  chastisement 
a  rod. 

He  walks  the  solitary  glen,  the  lonely  wood   and 

beach ; 

He  crosses  desert  plains,  and  climbs  the  deso- 
lated crest; 
The  stars  and  systems,  skies  and  clouds  he  scans; 

and  he  doth  reach 

Nearest  the  TRUTH,  that  underscores  all  things, 
and  is  the  BEST — 

THE  TBUTH,  that  bids  us  pity,  when  we  judge — 

when  we  condemn, 
Forgive — to  leave  to  God  such  vengeance  as  he 

wills — to  plead 
Prom  him  no  mercy  not  his  own—  small  favor  hope 

from  them 
Bred  to  man's  traits  of  treachery  and  greed. 


MEMORY'S  CHOICE.  31 

MEMOKY'S  CHOICE. 

"With  memory  of  pleasure  lost 

Affection  barbs  its  arrow. — 
Admonishing  the  heavy  cost 

Of  joy  life  drapes  with  sorrow. 
Happy,  they  only,  who  have  known 

No  succor  from  the  burden 
Chaining  men  to  their  lots,  which  groan 

With  sweat — >of  bliss  the  guerdon. 

For  hope  hath  he  of  better  fate — 

Not  having  known  to  prosper, 
Or  having  felt  to  speculate 

He  must  upon  disaster; 
Whilst  he  who  trembles  lest,  perchance, 

Success  may  not  be  lasting, 
Is  ever  quiv'ring  'neath  the  lance 

Prosperity  is  blas'ting. 

Eemembrance,  rescuing  from  the  strife 

A  sermon,  gravely  preaches  : 
The  only  comfort  plucked  from  life 

Unshamed  reflection  teaches. 
Not  giddy  pleasure's  chronicle 

Is  it  man,  happiest,  views; 
Looking  from  heaven's  pinnacle, 

Our  virtuous  deeds  we  choose. 


32       MUSINGS ;  FROM  A  PHILOSOPHERS  PORTFOLIO. 

MUSINGS;    FROM    A    PHILOSOPHER'S 
PORTFOLIO,  a. 


I. 

How  perfect,  tow'rd  the  end,  our  knowledge  of  the 

cause, 
From  which  we've  felt,  unwarned,  the  bittering 

effect ! 

Tho'  better  late,  than  ne'er,  we  come  to  recollect 
And  heed  our  intuitions-  than  all  written  laws 
More  serious  and  just — since  human  retrospect 
Must,   wise,   concede  that  Destinies — unseen — 

direct; 

Else,   why  in  hopeless  paths  advance,  in  hopeful 
pause  ? 

II. 

If  there  live  they  who  have  not  struggled  'gainst 

the  wave 

Of  Fate's  decree,  such  here  can  never  apprehend 
The  blunders,  crosses,  sorrows  Providence  may 

send 
To  change  the  heart  misled,  the  mind  from  error 


For  who,  taught  by  life's  checks  and  burdens, 

will  contend 

That  God,  however  chastening,  does  not  intend 
A  discipline,  to  each  most  needed,  for  the  grave  ? 


MUSINGS ;  FROM  A  PHILOSOPHERS  PORTFOLIO.       33 

HI. 

Long  in  the  mists  and  shadows  do  we  strive  and 

grope 
To  conquer  obstacles  not  e'en  the  spheres  can 

move; 

To  justify  opinions  trial  must  approve, 
Until,  our  judgment  yielding,  we  attain  a  hope 
That  we   may  follow — since  we  cannot  cut — a 

groove 

For  our  due  journeying,  upon  ways  far  above 
The  circumspect  of  man — beyond  blurr'd  mortal 
scope. 

IV. 

And  when,   at  the  declining  stage,  our  past  we 

view — 

Touching  its  errors,  battles,  mysteries,  regrets, 
By  score  of  impulse,  passion,  self-love — worldly 

frets, — - 
Contrasted  with  what  conscience  ever  weighed  as 

true, 
Our    being,   actions,   thoughts,   desires   should 

seem  but  debts, 
On  life's   short  ledger  balanced  by  the  grand 


Of  being  privileged  to  be,  to  think,   to   strive,   to 
bravely  do. 


THE  PUZZLE. 


THE  PUZZLE. 


Pray,  what  is  wrong  ?     And  what  is  right  ? 

If  what  our  hearts  impel 
Must  oft  be  hid  from  human  light 

Because  the  fates  befel 
That  like  from  like,  by  chance,  should  be — 

Through  no  device  of  ours — 
Diverged  and  crossed  before  frail  we 

Could  estimate  our  powers — 

Our  powers  or  gifts — of  thought,  of  love, 

Our  strength  to  do,  to  check 
The  motives,  actions,  aims  that  move 

This  sphere — to  joy  or  wreck 
Our  destinies,  and  in  the  end 

Leave,  yet  unsolved,  unkenn'd 
If  our  first  choice  or  ways  best  tend 

Life's  course  to  smooth  or  rend  ? 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN.  35 


II. 


Then  sweet  emotions,  tinged  divine 

By  heaven's  chast'ning  breath, 
Throb  o'er  the  arbors  that  entwine 

Our  hopes — in  life  and  death, 
Yield  blossoms  that  enchant  and  thrall, 

Waft  perfumes  that  diffuse 
Love's  subtle  incense  throughout  all 

The  harpings  of  the  muse. 


A  Poet's  Introspect,  (Page  ig). 


MY  SHRINE.  37 


MY  SHRINE. 


My  shrine  is  at  the  feet  of  her 

From  whom  fire,  tempest,  flood  in  vain, 

Nor  all  the  storms  in  space  astir, 
Can  separate  my  soul — whose  fane 
She  pillars  with  her  fay. 

My  goddess — lithe  as  dreams  disclose 
Or  in  the  dome  of  heaven  wings — 

More  vivid  on  my  image  grows, 
Fresh  rapture  to  my  longing  brings 
With  ev'ry  new-born  day. 

Her  features — than  Madonna's  none 
With  charity  more  mildly  light — 

Encourage  hope  I  may  atone 

For  heedless  act  or  wand'ring  flight 

Ere  blest  by  her  kind  sway. 

Her  step — more  graceful  tripped  no  queen 

Of  orient  or  fairy  land, 
In  visions  famed  by  poet  seen — 

I  so  adore  I'd  kiss  the  sand 

Where  its  soft  glance  would  stay. 


MY  SHRINE. 

Her  eyes !  My  God !  Thy  spark  divine 
Alone  the  mind's  profounds  may  spring 

With  power,  by  fate  denied  to  mine, 
To  faintly  sound  the  hopes  that  cling 
To  their  exalting  sway. 

Than  form,  or  feature,  motion,  eye, 
More  ravishing  by  far  there  gleam 

From  her  pure  spirit  thoughts  so  high 
Above  earth's  bounds,  my  life's  a  dream 
How  best  their  wish  obey. 

For  ev'ry  inspiration  sweet 

Drawn  from  this  sphere — by  her  made  heav'n, 
So  grateful  I,  no  due  seems  meet 

Essayed  in  words.     Love  strength  hath  giv'n 
My  heart  to  never  stray 
From  her — my  soul  to  pray 
To  none  save  her,  alway. 


I  HAVE  BEEN  LOVED. 


I  HAVE  BEEN  LOVED. 


My  garb  is  plain — 
Of  fabric  poor,  and  coarse,  my  well-worn  coat — 

Glazed  by  the  rain 
And  sun,  my  cap,  as  idlers  all  may  note — 

My  shirt  undressed 
By  starch  or  gloss — by  tie  nor  ruffle  decked; 

Yet  I  am  blessed 

With  joy  few    hearts,    'neath   royal    robes,    e'er 
recked— 

From  faith,  sublime  : 
That  I  was  loved,  loved  truly 
Once,  aye,  once 
Upon  a  time. 


My  form,  now  bent, 
Was  then  erect  as  any  forest  tree; 

My  breath,  short  spent, 
Then  filled  a  chest  exhaling  cheerily 


I  HAVE  BEEN  LOVED. 

Wild  trills  of  mirth, 
Or  chants  of  praise,  or  ballads  melting  love, 

Ere  soared  from  earth 
The  echo  of  my  soul — the  stars  above — 
With  song  sublime : 
That  I  was  loved,  loved  truly 
Once,  aye,  once 
Upon  a  time. 

Ne'er  wail  nor  weep 
I — sad  and  lone ;  for  I  would  not  exchange 

The  furrows  deep 
My  features  plow,  the  glist'ning  hairs  that  range 

My  locks,  erst  brown, 
Now  thinned  by  grief  and  care,  since  proudest  king 

Would  barter  crown 

To  gain  the  peace  of  love — the  joy  I  sing — 
The  faith  sublime  : 
That  I  was  loved,  loved  truly 
Once,  aye,  once 
Upon  a  time. 

I  labor  now — 
I  labored  then;  but  she  was  at  my  side, 

And  on  her  brow, 
And  in  her  eyes  my  hope  could  then  abide 


/  HAVE  BEEN  LOVED,  41 

By  signs  that  gave 
Encouragement,  by  smiles  that  brought  repose; 

Yet  I  am  brave, 

(For  destiny — not  we — our  fortunes  chose,) 
Through  faith  sublime  : 
That  I  was  loved,  loved  truly 
Once,  aye,  once 
Upon  a  time. 

I  sometimes  long — 
But,  wherefore  ? — since,  when  toiling,  mine  the  gift 

Of  sweetest  song 
Ere  muses  breathed,  or  minstrel  harped,  to  lift 

Man's  soul  beyond 
The  chains  that  bind  it  here,  as  in  a  vice, 

To  grim  despond, 
The  gift  of  knowing  all  that's  worth  the  price 

Of  Earth's  few  score — 
The  truth  sublime  : 
That  I  was  loved,  loved  truly 
Once,  aye,  once 
Upon  a  time — 
Hence,  evermore. 


42  LOVE. 


LOVE. 


Fate's  labor  vain  to  rear  a  wall 

'Twixt  loves  divine, 

Or  crush  the  shrine 
"Whereon  twain  souls  have  found  their  thralL 

Paths  may  diverge  like  hearts  afar — 

Their  hopes  yet  near; 

For  cloud  nor  bier 
Can  from  true  love  obscure  its  star. 


It  haunts  the  busy  work-day  hour, 

The  bed  of  dreams, 

First  matin's  beams, 
The  calm  amid  which  vespers  low'r. 

Wild  ocean  billows  may  career, 

Or  deserts  burn 

Between,  yet  turn 
No  eddies  to  awaken  fear; 


LOVE.  43- 

Since  ever  found,  close-hovering 

With  love,  bright  gleams 

From  purest  streams 
That  spring  the  cold  earth's  covering — 


Gleams  that,  once  mirrored,  cannot  fade — 

Their  gift  :  To  live — 

Sweet  light  to  give 
The  soul — when  all  beside  in  shade. 


4A  LOVES  PSYCHOLOGY. 


LOVE'S  PSYCHOLOGY. 


Love  whispers  its  sweet  messages 

Above  the  storms  of  life 
So  tranquilly,  no  presages 

Can  rouse  a  dread  of  strife. 

No  warning  doth  it  ever  heed — 

So  blind  affinity; — 
It  recks  ne'er  space,  nor  time,  nor  speed — 

Its  bounds  infinity. 

It  fears  no  danger,  sees  no  cloud — 

Its  happy  fate  to  be 
So  self-absorbed,  no  clamor  loud 

Can  break  its  ecstacy. 

One  only  language  doth  it  know — 

Not  spoken  by  the  lip; 
One  only  sign  need  it  e'er  show — 

And  oft'nest  that  by  slip — 

Through  tell-tale  eyes,  to  prove  their  deeps 

Keflect  a  wakened  soul — 
Whence  to  its  mate  God's  emblem  leaps, 

Two  hearts  to  mold  ONE  WHOLE. 


LOVE'S  RESPONSE.  45 


LOVE'S  RESPONSE. 


Love  ne'er  denies — it  gives, 
And  asking,  giveth  more — • 

Since  love,  by  yielding,  lives, 
Receiving,  adds  its  store. 

Love  feeds  upon  the  kiss 
That  thrills  its  counterpart, 

And  finds  its  home,  its  bliss 
Its  mate's  affinite  heart. 

It  craves  its  own  caress 
While  seeming  to  accede, 

And  hath  the  gift  to  bless 
When  most  the  pow'r  to  lead. 

Unsought,  Love's  answer  :  "  Use  !  " 
Its  only  thought,  to  give — 

Its  song,  eternal  muse  : 

"  For  thee,  my  peace  to  live !  " 

Love  ne'er  can  love  refuse — 

Responding  :  "  Aye,  for  aye  !  " — 

Its  chant,  eternal  muse  : 

"  For  thee,  my  balm  to  die  !  " 


46  THE  MISSING  NOTES. 


THE  MISSING  NOTES. 


Melodiously  through  the  air — 

From  harp,  and  violin,  and  flute — 

Float  strains  so  pure  that  pain  and  care 
Should  seem  exiled,  and  sorrow  mute. 

Anthems  they  play — from  Mozart  muse — 

Aspiring  harmonies  so  sweet, 
The  mind,  entranced,  might  well  refuse 

Life's  irksome  wail  again  to  meet. 

Oh!  Symphonies  sublime,  that  breathe — 
So  far  raised  o'er  this  world's  travail, 

"With  smiles  ye  might  the  angels  wreathe — 
Why  is't  for  me  your  splendors  fail  ? 

A  key,  alas !  is  wanting  here — 
The  nightingale  cannot  restore. 

The  tend'rest  notes  reach  not  my  ear, 
Nor  on  earth  will  they  evermore. 

More  thrilling  than  motet  divine — 
How  happy,  could  I  hear  her  voice  ! 

'Twill  not  descend  from  heaven's  shrine 
Save  my  freed  soul  to  raise — rejoice. 


OUR    TRYST.  47 


OUR  TKYST. 

Can'st  tell  me  what  is  here 
To  cause  my  nerves  vibrate, 

And  make— as  I  draw  near — 
My  heart  so  palpitate  ? 

Would'st  say,  the  linden  tree — 
On  which  are  fixed  my  eyes  ? 

Quite  like — since  thou  know'st  me 
All  nature's  boons  to  prize. 

Nay !— Then  dost  think  the  bench, 
That  in  its  shade  holds  place, 

My  normal  veins  could  blench, 
And  pallid  hue  my  face  ? 

Nor  would'st  believe  the  brook — 
Cool-winding  just  below 

The  terrace,  whence  we  look — 
Might  make  me  tremble  so  ? 

Nor  yet,  the  nonce,  suppose 
God's  clear,  calm  sky,  above 

This  refuge  for  repose, 

Could  my  whole  being  move? 


48  OUR  TRYST. 

Ah !  Love  hath  never,  then, 
Thy  wretched  heart  inspired  ; 

Or  quickly  should'st  thou  ken 
By  what  my  soul  is  fired  ! 

"Wherever  lingered  we, 

In  those  delightful  days 
Of  passion's  infancy, 

Showered  heav'n  its  brightest  rays. 

First  love's  geography — 

Than  your  whole  world's — hath  made 
More  legible  to  me 

Yon  copse,  and  tree,  and  shade ! 

The  azure  realms  that  crown 

These  sheltering  branches,  green — 

The  hillside  sloping  down 

To  yonder  spring-bed's  gleen — 

The  seat — where  once  reclined 
Her  form  I  worshiped  more 

Than  e'er  it  was  divined 
Man  had  the  pow'r  before — 

Her  eyes — that  ruled  my  soul 
By  glances,  which  no  muse 

Can  e'er  presume  extol — 
My  mem'ry  will  not  lose  ! 


OUR  TRYST.  49 

So  long  as  sense  may  'queathe 

Me  privilege  to  keep 
An  image,  whilst  I  breathe, 

This  site's  engraven  deep. 

Oh !  Can  OUR  TRYST — hallowed 
By  love's  first  pledge,  embrace — 

By  Thee,  God,  be  allowed 
Eternity  t'efface ! 


50  TOO    LATE. 

TOO    LATE. 


His  heart  denied,  love's  token  sweet  refused 
She  mourneth  now  as  heaven's  gift  abused, 
And  in  her  memory  e'er  will  linger  green 
Her  last  wish,  still  her  wish,  as  parting — seen 
His  pleasure  in  her  will, 
His  wish  to  woo  her  still, 

When  her  small  hands  by  others  tender  pressed, 
And  her  soft  lips  by  other  lips  caressed, 
His  actions  true,  and  words,  with  fond  regret, 
She'll  aye  recall,  as  well  her  wish  that  yet 
His  pleasure  was  her  will, 
His  wish  to  woo  her  still. 

"  Oh !  Dearie,  how  I  wish  I'd  kissed  you  now !  " — 
Her  last  low  plaint,  her  pray'r,  she'll  wish  were  vow 
To  love,  kiss,  fondle — long  as  breath  could  keep 
Her  heart  alive,  that  now  doth  silent  weep 

What  might  have  been  her  will, 
His  right  to  woo  her  still. 


OF    WHAT   AVAIL  I  61 

OF    WHAT    AVAIL! 


I. 

'Neath  clear  spring  skies  I  stroll  the  turf's  rich  green, 
And  list'  the  merry  warblers  that  careen 
Above  its  velvet,  and  the  ripe'ning  hedge 
That  fringes,  to  the  water's  edge — 
Of  what  avail ! 

H. 

I  linger  o'er  the  streamlet's  silver  sheen, 
Its  tinted-pebble  bed,  and  depths  unseen; 
Pursue  its  course  along  the  hillock's  base, 
Where  vines  and  boughs,  depending,  interlace — 
Of  what  avail ! 

in. 

I  climb  broad  slopes,  and  rugged  cliffs  ascend; 
Survey  grand  vistas  which  the  heavens  blend — 
Enclosing  valleys  rich  with  herds  and  crops, 
Encircling  mountains  crowned  with  frosted  tops — 
Of  what  avail ! 

IV. 

I  thread  the  mazes  of  the  lonely  wood; 
Kecline  on  banks  of  moss;  in  dreamy  mood, 
Evoke  weird  spirits  from  the  dank  ravine 
That  the  wild  forest-shadow  falls  between — 
Of  what  avail ! 


OF   WHAT  AVAIL! 

V. 

Of  what  avail?  Ah !  It  availeth  not 

That  God  hath  made  his  ev'ry  work  divine ; 
How  e'er  sublime  the  thought,  or  grand  the  spot — 

Since  all  of  rapture  in  my  heart  doth  fail, 
Save  when  I  have  the  joy  of  echoing  thine, 
My  love !  My  love ! — 
Of  what  avail ! 


TO   FLORA.  53 

TO    FLORA 

(OF  THE  DEMI-MONDE.) 


Pretty  blossom  whilst  thou  bide, 

All  the  stronger  could'st  endear 
Hearts,  if  would'st  thy  petals  hide 

From  false  lights,  nor  disappear 
Altogether  from  the  world — 

Only  nestle  in  the  shade, 
Where  thy  leaves — by  love  unfurl'd, 

Sweet  hope  moist'ning — ne'er  would  fade. 

Little  Flora,  tint  thy  bloom, 

Ere  it  perish,  with  love's  hue, 
For  when  wither'd,  sear  the  doom 

Meted  out  to  flow'rs  like  you — 
Nipt  by  frosts  before  the  sun 

Nature's  glow  life's  buds  can  fill. — 
Flora,  list' !    The  seasons  run; 

Few  the  days  are  left  thee  still. 


54  MY  SPRING  IS  HERE. 

MY    SPRING    IS    HEEE.  b. 


If  the  snow  be  piled  in  drifts, 
Still  my  violets  sweetly  bloom; 
Tho'  the  whistiing  wind  sweeps  chill, 
Yet  my  blue-bird  gaily  chants. 

For  the  violet— that  lifts 

Its  bright  petals  from  the  gloom 

Of  bleak  March,  my  heart  to  thrill — 

Clara's  glance,  englowing,  haunts. 

And  the  bird,  whose  warbling  rifts 
Through  white  flakes — that  weave  their  loom 
'Mid  the  blinding  gusts  which  fill 
Clouded  sky — chirps  Clara's  taunts. 


LOVE  HATH  NO  BOURNE.  55 


LOVE    HATH    NO    BOURNE. 


*'  Why  sleep  you,  in  the  gloaming,  here  ?  " 
I  spake,  and  gently  grasped 
The  stranger's  hand,  while  clasped 

Its  mate  the  stone  he  slumbered  near. 

With  dazed  look,  upraised,  he  sighed; — 
Then  marked  he  my  grave  tone — 
My  eyes,  that  plainly  shone 

Mute  pity's  glint — and  low  replied: 


I  waken  from  a  holy  trance 

You  blindly  mis-name  sleep — 

Not  known  may  tearless  weep 
My  heart  the  pall  that  shrouds  her  glance — 

Her  glance  ,that  glows,  through  light  or  shade, 

In  deep-graved  semblances 

From  sweet  remembrances 
By  love  bestowed,  ne'er  doom'd  to  fade — 

Feeling  my  erstwise  void — the  past, 

With  its  foretaste  of  peace, 

Assuring  care's  release 
Through  love,  shall  be  renewed  at  last; — 


LOVE  HATH  NO  BOURNE. 

That  altho'  sundered  we — by  fate, 

Love  hath  merged  heart  and  will, 
Once  loving,  love  we  still, 

And  love's  elysium,  trustful,  wait; — 

Knowing  her  spirit  bound  with  mine 
By  loyal  love's  soft  ties, 
Whose  Jove-like  strength  defies 

Creation's  pow'r  to  undermine ! 


ALTHAZARS  WOOING.  57 

ALTHAZAE'S    WOOING. 

(A    LOVE    LETTEB.) 


My  darling  little  girl:  'Twas  kind  in  thee  to  praise 
My  meagre  lines;    but  of  my  thoughts,  poor, 

weak  the  offspring 
Seem   in   cold,    set  speech.     Fancy's  flight   shall 

vainly  raise 
The  muses;  not  the  nine  combined  have  force  to 

sing 
How  deeply  I  adore,  love,  worship  thee ! 

Jehovah's  fire  divine  might  human  wit  inspire 
"With  language  consonant  my  reveries  to  show, 

My  dreams  with  coloring  appropriate  attire — 
My  waking,  sleeping  visions,  all  are  so  aglow 
With  beatific  images  of  thee ! 

No  mortal  gift  can  e'er  portray  the  ecstacy, 

Surprise,   compassion,   hope   by  which    I    was 

confused 

When  thy  soft  eyes  bequeathed  to  mine  the  legacy 
Of  their  first  glance — a  glance  that  fain  would 

have  refused 

Response; — tho'  naught  have  my  eyes  since 
beheld  save  thee ! 


ALTHAZARS    WOOING. 

In  that  grave  moment,  when  from  thy  proud  brow 

I  pushed 
The  tresses  back — tearing  the  mask  from  thy 

false  life, 
Showing  how  tenderness  was  numbed,  how  hopes 

were  crushed, 
Where  both  should  bloom  and  nourish — when 

in  thee  at  strife 

Justice  and  truth  I  saw,  how  my  heart  bled 
for  thee ! 

And  when  in  my  sad  tale  of  thine  the  counterpart 
Was  found,   it  is  our  secret   sweet  how   pity 

nourished 

Sympathy,  till  in  every  fibre  of  my  heart 
One  sentiment  had  weight  to  thrill,  one  form  was 

cherished ! — 

Can'st  ever  doubt  if  then  my  soul  was  nearest 
thee? 

It  was  not  left  to  question,  after  that  sweet  hour 
I  caught  a  shadow  from  thy  lattice  backward 

shrink, 
If  insecure   to   meet  my  glance   had    fall'n    thy 

power; — 
Thence  mine  has  been  whatever  pleasure  man 

may  drink 

Of  this  world's  springs. — Words  vainly  speak 
my  love  for  thee  ! 


ALTHAZAR'S    WOOING.  59 

Nor  ever  can  coined  phrases  echo  from  one  heart 

Unto  another,  which  affinity  hath  bound 
Together  with  its   web    supreme — nor    can  pen 

impart — 
The  glories  love  hath  conquered,  hopes  that  trust 

hath  found. — 

Profane  the  hand  wouid  dare  describe  my  love 
for  thee ! 


FATAL  HUE. 


FATAL     HUE. 


In  my  brief  cycle,  eyes  of  mellow  brown 

Are  deep-haloed — by  Fate's  kind  will,  the  charm, 
Through  memory,  deigned  my  earth. — Looking  far 

down, 

Beyond  the  vistas,  whence  my  mother's  arm 
Again  encircles  me — no  thought  beside 

Recalled,   my   soul  is  pierced — tho'   graves  be- 
tween— 
By  glances  beaming  love,  at  flooding  tide, 

From  orbs  of  richest  brown — gleaming  with  ser- 
aph's sheen. 

n. 

And  so,  alway,  have  eyes  of  browned  hue 

My  spirit  moved  with  quickest,  tendrest  thrills. — 
A  dulcet  vision  now  en  wafts  to  view 

A  shade  celestial — that  with  rev'rie  fills 
My  heart — begemmed  with  stars  of  brown,  that 
caught 

The  tinder-leaves  of  love,  in  hope's  wild  years — 
My  cadences  of  youth's  first  passion  taught; — 

I  ever  see  them — as  we  parted — bathed  in  tears. 


FATAL  HUE.  61 

m. 

Anon  there  came  a  fair  maid — later,  wife, 

The  mother  of  my  children — faithful,  fond, 
Tend'ring  to  me,  as  pledge  of  love,  her  life 

By  her  best  lights,  retaining  me  in  bond 
Not  by  my  penance,  or  yet  by  her  care — 

Eeflex  e'er  found  in  umbered  suns  that  seek 
My  will,  but  by  four  other  eyes — two  pair 

Of  magnet  brown — that  unto  father's,  pleading, 


IV. 

And  at  the  last,  I've  won  my  soul's  franchise — 
Keposed  'neath  deeps  of  brown  that  mirrored 

first 
Affinity's  rare  realms,  the  paradise 

Where  hearts  are  soothed — their  chords  yet  kept 

athirst 
For  love — love  only — love  that  always  lives — 

Love  that  creates,  consumes,  yet  never  tires — 
A  well  that  craves  for  more,  while  most  it  gives — 
Love,     grand,     supreme — unequal-hymned    by 
countless  lyres ! 


THAT  PORTRAIT,    WHOSE? 


THAT    POKTRAIT,    WHOSE? 


That  portrait,  whose  ?  you  ask  ? — Faint  image  of  a 
dream 

Of  long  ago, 

My  only  dream  that  e'er  brought  peace,  and  made 
life  seem 

A  sweet  echo 
Of  love— 
Of  Heaven— 

The  one  dim  reflex  left  to  me  of  pleasures  past — 

The  clouds  to  chase 

From  mem'ry's  realms,  or  mirror — from  beyond  the 
last 

Bounds  of  my  race — 
Of  love — 
Of  Heaven. 


LOVE  ALONE  CAN  SAVE  THE  HEART. 
LOVE    ALONE    CAN    SAVE    THE    HEART. 

A    SONG. 
I. 

I  wander,  oft,  with,  merry  guests,  o'er  landscape- 
gardened  grounds, 

'Cross  emerald  lawns,  through  umbrage  close, 
adown  sequestered  ways — 

By  bower  and  fountain,  lake  and  rill,  and  yet,  in  all 

my  rounds, 

Find  no  delight  from  broad  domain,  no  balm 
from  others'  praise 

Of  that  which  charms  external  sense,  while  touch- 
ing not  the  heart. 

n. 

Tis  true  that  many  here  might  dwell,  and  happily 

endure 
What  to  my  sight  is  but  the  yield  of  taste,  with 

gold  allied, 
That  many  might  their  lives  enjoy  'mid  scenes  that 

me  assure 

How  often — to  the  real  fate — the  ideal  is  denied; 
For  seeming  by  possessions  blest,  still  void  may  be 
the  heart. 


LOVE  ALONE  CAN  SAVE  THE  HEART. 

HI. 

In  noble   aspirations   crossed,  in   pure   affections 

chilled, 
Checked    by  mistakes    too   late    to    mend,   by 

wounds  too  late  to  heal, 
Whose  sentiment,  by  charms  of  nature,  or  of  art, 

is  thrilled!— 
So  long  as  memory  survives,  or  instinct  lasts,  we 

feel 

The  only  joys  that  give  content  are  those  of  a  lov- 
ing heart. 

IV. 

Riches  are  dross,  all  pastime's  dull,  philosophy's  a 


To  him  whose  breast  finds  no  response,  whose 

thought  no  echo  brings, 
Since  all  the  garnish  of  our  strife,  in  this  bleak 

world  of  care, 
Is  brief  and  passing  as  the  wind;  the  only  wealth 

that  clings 
Eternally  unto  the  soul  is  that  of  a  loving  heart. 

V. 

Then  take,  oh  !  take  my  worldly  goods  and  wares, 

my  grand  estates, 

Fame,  fortune,  all  man  covets  in  his  envy  and  his 
pride, 


LOVE  ALONE  CAN  SAVE  THE  HEART.  65 

And  give  me  but  a  loyal  heart,  a  mind,  a  soul  that 

mates 
My  own,  in  sweet  affinity,  in  every  sense  my 

bride, 
Her  creed :  LOVE  is  IMMORTAL — LOVE  ALONE  CAN  SAVE 

THE  HEART! 


FRANCESCA'S  REVERIE. 


FRANCESCA'S    REVERIE. 


Love  him !  why  should  I  not  love,  idolize,  adore 
The  man  who  first  with  interest  did  condescend 
Inquire  my  wretched  tale,  a  pitying  ear  did  lend, 

Bade  hope  I  might  myself  unto  myself  restore  ? 

Love  him !  worship  were  far  more  merited  and  true 
A  word  by  which  express  the  sentiment — too 

deep 
For  circumscription  to  the  narrow  bounds  that 

keep 
My  poor  heart  powerless  to  herald  his  just  due. 

Not  my  weak  prayers  for  him  presume  implore 
From   God  the  recompense  deserved  to  manly 

deeds; 

His  charity  of  soul  and  faith  obscure  the  needs 
Of  prayer,  than  which  they   of  themselves  assure 
far  more. 

Then  why  thus  smoulder,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 

the  fire 

That  burns  to  flash  before  the  world  my  love's 
incense ! 


FRANCESCA'S   REVERIE. 

Or  why  not  rest  my  head,  proud,  on  his  bosom — 

whence 

Ne'er  beats  a  pulse  that  would  not  for  my  sake  ex- 
pire! 

Alas !  was  it  recorded,  for  a  purpose  wise, 
That  destiny  should  pitilessly  interpose, 
To  haunt  my  horoscope,  a  shadow  'till  life's 

close  ? 

Then   quickly  perish  all,  save  love !     THAT  never 
dies. 

For  him  my  fealty  deep,  eternal  as  the  skies ! 
As  infinite  my  faith — resigning  me  to  live 
Here,  in  the  one  sweet  hope  his  love,  his  trust 
doth  give: 

OUR    COMPENSATIONS    GOD   ANON    MUST   EQUALIZE. 


68  ALTHAZARS  MUSE. 

ALTHAZAR'S    MUSE. 

(A   REVEEIE.) 

My  best  was  tombed 
Upon  thy  bier, 
When  fell  the  tear 

My  fate  that  gloomed, 

My  Love. 

Yet  have  I  wreathed 

A  single  gem, 

Your  diadem 
It  shall  adorn, 

My  Love  1 

For  you  first  breathed 

Into  my  heart 

The  vivid  dart 
From  which  was  born 

My  Love — 

My  life's  true  leaven — 
All  e'er  was  worth 
My  stay  on  earth, 

My  hope  of  heaven, 

My  Love ! 


ALTHAZAKS   MUSE. 

Whatever  food 

My  thoughts  may  grow 

My  God  doth  owe 
Thy  poVr  for  good, 

My  Love! 

Hence,  bloom  or  fade, 

My  mind's  estate 

I  dedicate 
To  thy  dear  shade, 

My  Love— 

For  tribute  mine — 

Soul's  glimpse,  and  heart's 

My  muse  imparts — 
To  build  our  Shrine, 

My  Love! 


70  LOVE'S  GREETING. 

LOVE'S    GKEETING. 


A  perfume,  as  from  spirit  land, 

Wafts  nigh;— 
A  gentle  pressure  meets  my  hand ; — 

A  sigh 
Breaks; — and  a  face  dawns — rose-hued  deep;- 

Whilst  eye 
So  searching  gleams,  my  pulses  leap 

And  fly. 

A  form  seraphic  circles  mine 

With  bliss 
So  pure,  the  current  seems  divine; — 

A  kiss- 
Diviner — links  with  her's  my  soul. — 

Amiss 
The  thought,  for  either,  other  goal 

Than  this ! 

Behold  the  tokens  nightly  brings 

Sweet  love 
To  me,  with  hope  that  brightly  sings 

Above 
My  worldly  cares— mid'  dreams 

That  move 
So  peacefully — with  life  heav'n  seems 

Enwove. 


A   THRILL.  71 


A  THRILL. 


"Why  do  yon  flute's  vibrations  sweet 

Thus  melt  my  soul  to  tears  ? 
Alas  !  Bright  hours  they  bid  me  greet — 

Adown  the  vale  of  years. 

They  waft  to  me  so  soft  and  low 

Her  fav'rite  airs,  I  bide 
Near  wont  familiar  hearthstone's  glow — 

Fair  Anna  by  my  side. 

They  vivify  my  dream  of  love — 
Tho'  ne'er  love's  rnem'ry  lost — 

Call  back  love's  looks,  ways,  tones,  to  move 
Me  now,  in  life's  hoar  frost. 


72  MY  SANCTUM. 


MY  SANCTUM,  c. 


High-crested  o'er  a  pretty  square — 
Rich-foliaged  deep-green — as  fair 

As  nature's  own; 

Ought  I  not  feel — so  grand  the  perch — 
My  visions  spread  therefrom  in  search 

Of  faerie  throne  ? 

Aye,  when  the  sun  beams  on  the  trees, 
Their  boughs  sway'd  gently  by  the  breeze 

Of  balmy  June, 

As  'neath  their  shade  yon  fountain  plays 

In  rhythm  resembling  minstrel  lays — 

Its  cadent  tune; 

While  all  within  speaks  taste  and 
My  hive  array'd,  in  every  part, 

With  chaste  design; 

Its  sides  with  dainty  pictures  hung 

Some  rare,  suggestive  works  among, 

You  may  opine. 

No  doubt  'tis  dear  the  reader  deems 
My  attic-parlor,  and  the  dreams 
With  which  endow'd — 


MY  SANCTUM.  73 

Its  desk  and  cabinet,  choice  books 
And  prints,  its  casement  that  o'erlooks 
The  humming  crowd. 

Not  always  dear — but  desolate 
My  sanctum,  myself  isolate, 

When  she  not  here. 

Dull,  drear  and  sombre  seem  my  walls, 
Dim,  pall'd  my  gaze,  where'er  it  falls, 

Till  she  appear. 


74  ALAS,  DEAR  WIFE  OF  MY  SOUL! 


ALAS,  DEAB  WIFE   OF  MY   SOUL! 


Never  a  Nay  answer'd  she, 

So  long  as  she  lived,  to  me; 

Never  a  scowl  or  a  frown, 

When  most  by  sad  cares  weighed  down; 

For  me  quick  thought  and  kind  cheer — 

A  kiss,  tho'  all  the  world  near; 

Tender  of  speech  as  a  dove — 

She  lived,  helpmeet,  for  my  love. 

Alas,  dear  wife  of  my  soul, 
If  there  be  heaven,  my  goal ! 

Always  a  smile  or  a  tear — 

As  I  would  be  cheered  or  moved; 
Never  a  tremor  of  fear 

To  grieve  the  heart  hers  so  loved; 
Never  a  pain  or  an  ache 

Wailed  she — ere  sympathy  knew; 
Her  aim  and  work,  for  my  sake, 

To  live,  to  suffer,  to  do. 

Alas,  dear  wife  of  my  soul, 
If  there  be  heaven,  my  goal  1 

I  feel  that  she's  waiting  me  now, 
If  souls  hereafter  survive; 


ALAS,  DEAR  WIFE  OF  MY  SOUL! 

"Waiting  and  watching  I  trow, 

Her  soul  for  mine — yclept  alive 
(The  wherefore,  or  why,  or  how 

To  God  alone  known)  to  strive, 
With  patience,  my  fate  to  bow 
Tilljoy'dmy  summons  arrive — 

To  join  the  wife  of  my  soul 
In  our  lives'  ultimate  goal. 


LOVE'S  BAUD. 
LOVE  S  BARD. 


Spontaneously  springs  the  song 

Of  love  from  poet's  soul. 
Soft  glide  the  strings  his  lyre  along 

Eesponsive  strains  that  dole 
To  human  ears  the  glint  divine 

Of  chords  the  heavens  sway 
From  symphonies  the  muses  nine 

Alone  may  harp  alway. 

No  clod,  of  plain,  prosaic  mold 

E'er  on  the  lyre  essay'd 
Love's  measure  strike,  or  moods  unfold 

By  stanzas  interlaid 
With  scintilating  gems  apt-rhymed — 

But  seraphs  quick  discerned 
His  metre  counterfeit,  ill-timed 

His  fire,  his  verse  ill-turned. 

The  soul  of  bard  doth  throb  and  bound 

With  sympathy  so  keen, 
No  grim  disguise  can  dull  the  sound 

His  couplets  bright  careen, 
Or  hide  the  sparks  his  thoughts  that  flame 

With  pow'r  to  move  the  heart 
As  nothing  can  beside — no  name, 

No  skill,  no  drosser  part. 


WE  MUST  LIVE  AGAIN.  77 


WE    MUST    LIVE    AGAIN. 

Why  have  we  hoped,  my  love,  so  long  and  vain, 

Ourselves  to  understand, 

Since  both  our  souls  demand — 
As  a  condition — we  wust  live  again  ? 

Elaine  !  Unanswered  we  shall  ever  plead 

For  mercy  to  enjoy 

Love  born  without  aloy, 
Or  confidence  no  shaft  can  rudely  bleed. 

Wrecked  are  our  hearts — that  should  beat   one, 
and  rent 

Our  lives — by  force  of  fate, 

Because  we  did  not  wait, 
With  patience,  for  the  signs  which  mark  content. 

Eegrets  o'erhang  our  past,  and  shadows  cross 

Our  paths,  to  make  obscure 

The  truths  we  might  endure 
If  they  could  compensate  us  for  our  loss. 

Why  dream,  alas !  of  compensation  here  ? 

Apart  we  farther  drift, 

No  hope  our  hearts  to  lift 

Until  the  welcome  shrift — 
ANNIHILATION,  or  a  BRIGHTER  SPHERE. 


78  OUR  HOLIDAY. 

OUR    HOLIDAY. 


Why  seem,  to-day,  the  skies  so  bright  and  clear, 

The  flow'rs  so  fragrant,  and  the  meads  so  green, 
The  groves  so  full  of  peace,  the  atmosphere 
So  musical  with  bird-notes,  and  the  sheen 
Yon  lake  reflects  so  heav'nly  ? — Ah  !    A  face 
Gleams  with  the  glance  its  heart  bespoke,  sweet 
Grace, 

When  you  wish'd  me  a  happy  holiday. 

And  as  I  walk  the  woods,  stroll  pastures  fresh, 

The  wavelets  skim,  or  thread  the  golden  grain, 
I  almost  feel  you  with  me,  in  the  flesh — 
So  treasure  I  your  wish,  so  gently  rain 
Your  eyes  sincere  the  dew,  as  your  lips  trace 
The   truth  with    which    they    give    the  thought, 
sweet  Grace, 

For  my  enjoyment  of  this  holiday. 

I  hope  this  day,  my  little  friend,  may  bring 
To  you  delights  to  banish  ev'ry  care  ! 

Be  you  as  cheerful  now,  as  I,  since  sing 
All  sounds  one  melody,  and  everywhere 

I  pause  or  turn,  your  eyes,  your  voice,  sweet  Grace, 

In  my  poor  heart  o'er  nature's  charms  keep  pace. — 
For  you,  as  me,  be  this  true  holiday ! 


CONFECTION.  79 

CONFECTION. 

(AN      ALBUM      LEAF   ) 


Thy  charms,  my  lexicon's  grand  store 

Of  sweets,  vain  laboring 
To  pen  ! — Thou  JUJUBE — nectar'd  o'er 

With  angel's  flavoring  ! — 
Thou  MALLOW  white,  from  faery-shore, 

Of  heaven  savoring ! — 
Choice  MARRON  GLACE — of  the  rare 

Thy  small  hands  favoring  ! 
Truce,  Madeline  !  for  thou  so  fair, 

My  song  I'd  braver  sing 
If  fate  were  kind  ! — Oh  !  why  not  dare 

For  thee  to  graver  ring 
The  chimes  my  heart  now  guards  with  care  ? 

BECAUSE  TKUE  PEACE  I'D  BRING! 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


IN  MEMOKIAM.  d 

Chaste  flower, 

No  power 
Could  change  thy  fate — 

Thy  dower, 

The  hour 
Should  not  be  late 

For  parting. 

Indeed, 

Decreed 
From  birth— thy  death 

Should  speed; 

The  seed 

In  thy  first  breath 
Of  parting. 

Not  less 

We  bless, 
With  sorrow  deep — 

The  few 

That  knew 
Thy  worth,  and  weep 
Thy  parting. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  81 

Thy  meed: 
Kind  deed, 

And  gentle  word, 
Truth,  love- 
Above 

Divinely  heard 

Since  parting. 

Friends  lave 

Thy  grave, 
Sweet  ALICE  EARL, 

With  tears, 

Tho'  cheers 

The  thought  they  pearl — 
Since  parting — 

A  brow 

That  now 
God's  chaplet  wears, 

Nor  fades, 

Nor  shades 
With  earth's  sad  cares 
Of  parting. 


SEPT.  15,  1884. 


82  A   LOVERS    HYMNAL. 


A    LOVER'S    HYMNAL. 


An  angel's  visit  I  await, 

Yet  feel  iny  angel  knows 
So  well  my  thoughts,  from  dawn  till  late, 

She'll  look — in  verse  or  prose — 

For  one  short  pray'r  from  me. 

And  I  will  make  it  love's  sweet  pray'r: 

God  fill  my  darling's  heart 
With  peace;  and  teach — no  matter  where — 

She'U  find  its  tend'rest  part 
Abiding,  true,  in  me. 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN.  83 


III. 


Next,  brief  conceits  the  mind  invade 

And  capture  to  express 
Trite  theories,  or  theses  staid, 

Or  clamors  for  redress 
Of  wrongs  and  errors  by  the  plane 

Of  worldly  squares  and  rules, 
Not  heeding  how  diseased  the  grain 

Of  sense  in  human  fools. 


A  Poefs  Introspect,  (Page  18;. 


ALTHAZARS  MISSION. 


ALTHAZAB'S    MISSION. 


Althazar  fell,  lang  syne,  upon  a  lurid  haunt — 
Of  sinister  repute.     It  was  his  venture  first;  the 

last 
In  his  life's  span,  save  the  like  end  to  serve,  God 

grant! 

II. 

For  he  met  there  a  stray'd  child — 'dowed  with 

timid  grace; 
Of  mien,  rarely  so  pensive — in  lovlier  mold,  none 

cast. — 
Strangely,   wrongly,   utterly  seemed  she    out  of 

place ! 


m. 

He  looked  into  her  weary,  melancholy  eyes, 

To  penetrate  the  mystery  environing  her  past; 
And  from  their  depths  surged  one  of  nature's  lies ! 


ALTHAZARS  MISSION. 


IV. 


My  token  you,  wise-reading,  understand,  or  should, 
To  phrase  the  obstacles — so  vast — cold   destiny 

hath  flung 
Before  the  will  and  effort  to  do  ever   good — 


The  sad  impossibility  events,  stern,  raise — 

Except,  mayhap,  for  those  by  fortune  favor'd  to 
die  young — 

Of  following  paths  prescribed,  in  so-termed  right- 
eous ways. 

V. 

How  false  did  seem  all  cant,  how  chill  philosophy, 
Viewing  the  fate  of  this  poor  waif  Althazar  found 

among 
The  shadows,  where  she  linger'd — lacking  strength 

to  fly! 

"  By  what  mischance  of  Justice  came  you  here  !  " 

he  had 
Nigh  falter'd;  but  the  words,  reproachful,  broke 

upon  his  tongue — 
It  seem'd  so  harsh  in  him  to  rank  her  with  the  bad. 


ALTHAZARS  MISSION.  87 

VI. 

The  while  he  mutely  gazed,  so  crossed  her  lot  ap- 


So  counter-vailed  her  thoughts — as  if,  amid  de- 
spair, they  clung 
Yet  to  a  hope,  his  soul  with  pity  was  new-reared. 

Bevived  sprang  dearest  images  of  his  own  youth 
To  life  again,  as  on  Althazar's  lips  the  question 

hung 
That  feared  to  shake  his  tott'ring  citadel  of  TRUTH. 

vn. 

A  mask  her  brow  might  wear ;  he,  ne'ertheless, 

would  save; 
He  dared  not  judge;  to  plead,  admonish,  move, 

he  dream'd  not  how; 
He   simply  realized  a  wish  for  strength  tradition 


Jove's  mythic  preachers,   of  the   fabled   days   of 

yore — 
A  wish  for  charity  of   patience,  wisdom,  power, 

now 
To  lift  a  wreck'd  craft  o'er  the  quicksands — nothing 


ALTHAZARS  MISSION. 

vni. 

A  radiant  face — that,  years  agone,  was  wont  to 

bend 
Tow'rd  his,  ere  sombre  death  had  robbed  his 

world  of  its  one  saint, 
His  mother's — from  the  skies  did  tearfully  descend, 

As  if  in  answer  to  a  pray'r.     And  group'd  her's 

round 

His  sisters'  smiles,  encouraging.    Hallow'd  mem- 
ories— faint 
Before — arose  so  vivid,  confidence  was  found, 

And  a  vague  trust — urging  his  soul,  with  sudden 

force, 
To  purposes  divine — yielding  him  introspect  to 

paint 
Of  fate's  capricious  ends  the  causes  in  life's  course. 

IX. 

Then  to  Althazar  woke  the  voice  just  hopes  inspire ; 
And    soe'er    brief    the  interlude   between  first 

thought  and  speech, 

In  calmly  whispered  words,  he  breathed  a  sacred 
fire— 


ALTHAZARS  MISSION. 

Not  of  stage  or  forum,  of  altar  or  of  field, 

But  of  a  SOUL  yearning,  with  noble  sympathy,  to 

reach 
Those  silent  chords,  in  ev'ry  creature  kin,  that 

yield, 

When  touched,  unto  the  right — making  seem  false 

and  gross, 

Delusive,   desolating,   God-forsaking,   mad,    im- 
pure, 

All  ways,  things,  circumstances,  born  of  passion's 
dross — 

Kaising  from  the  mist  of  dulled  faith  and  wrong 

pride, 
Above  the  horizon,  into  heaven's  undimmed 

azure, 
The  knowledge  that  on  safe  paths  chance  may 

bring  a  guide. 


Althazar  won,  by  sympathy's  warm  eloquence, 
That  hour,  a  soul  from   chains   and   fetters  it 

would  hence  abjure, 
Miscast — not  by  its  will,  but  by  its  confidence 


ALTHAZAR'S  MISSION. 

In  seeming  good,  that  here  gives  Hell  its  influence 
To  lead  unwary  steps  on  roads  and  by-ways  ren- 
dered sure 
By  one  guide  only — bought  with  age — EXPERIENCE. 


XL 


To  dim  remembrance  since,  in  vain  the  years  have 

rolled; 

The  lustre  of  that  hour — as  a  MISSION — will  en- 
dure, 

Pleading  Althazar's  grace,  when  his  life's  knell  is 
tolled. 


BROOK   NO   KINO.  91 

BKOOK    NO    KING. 


Space  and  time's  omniscient  Seer 
Man  denies  the  gifts  mature 
To  the  worth,  my  sons,  doth  meed 
Right  divine  to  king  o'er  you. 

"Wind  and  mind,  both  balm  and  blear, 
Sweep  beneath  the  sky's  azure — 
Changing  if  in  pow'r  and  speed — 
Yielding  no  man  more  than  you. 

Aye !  All  breathe  one  atmosphere ; 
All,  by  mold,  of  like  nature. — 
Cancerous  the  womb  would  breed 
Caste  or  class  to  king  o'er  you ! 

What  tho'  some  call  life  career  ? 
Others  deem  we  fate  endure. — 
Neither  sanctions  king  or  creed 
Sporting  fate,  my  sons,  or  you. 

Lies  tradition  holding  dear 

Tyrant,  or  his  record  pure  ! 

Trusts,  e'er  spurn'd  by  him,  should  lead 

You  to  brook  no  king  of  you. 


BROOK    NO   KING. 

Crowns,  nor  crests,  nor  sceptres  here 
All  the  symbols  slaves  insure. — 
Bead  this  truth — its  warning  heed : 
Gold  would  starve — to  king  o'er  you ! 

Cassocks  dynasties  may  rear, 

Sects  evoking  to  assure 

Bondage— spawn' d  of  fears  and  greed.- 

Bigotry  would  king  o'er  you ! 

Question  you  what  course  to  steer — 
Apt  your  lot  to  best  secure — 
Shunning  king-craft's  shoal  and  weed  ? 
List',  my  sons,  I'll  answer  you: 


Ask  no  favor !   Feel  no  fear ! 
Of  yourselves  seek  to  be  sure — 
Never  vaunting,  but  by  deed 
Proving  no  man  king  of  you ! 

Counsel  with  your  soul !    The  sneer 
Of  pride  contemn  !    Be  cynosure 
Of  your  own  right  aim — the  need 
No  king  can  supply  to  you ! 


BROOK  NO   KING.  93 

Crown  content !   Mold  heart !    Spread  cheer ! 

If  you  would  the  crosses  cure 

Of  experience,  and  feed 

By  the  hands  no  king  gave  you. 

Anchor  faith  on  no  one's  bier 
Save  your  own!   Let  no  charm  lure 
Your  leal  to  the  toils  that  knead 
Servitude  and  king  for  you ! 

Cringe  not !   Bend  not !   You  are  peer 
Of  the  czar,  whom  dreads  now  'mure 
'Neath  the  shadows,  to  which  speed 
Princes  all  who'd  king  o'er  you ! 

When  to  thrones  the  'larum  drear 
Breaks,  anon,  so  all  may  hear: 
GOD  is  FREEDOM  !  —  Far  and  near 
Hue  the  tocsin  !   Loud  and  clear 
Eing  the  chimes,  with  blood  imbure  ! 
Strip,  and  burn  the  garniture 
Masking  worldly  crowns  !  THE  SEED 
KILL  OF  SIRES  WHO'D  KING  O'ER  YOU  I 


MY  REVERENCE. 


MY   EEVEKENCE. 


Let  other  mortals  dwell  in  awe  of  the  unknown; 
Or  fawning,  cringe — with  timid  nerve — to  tinsel'd 

throne, 

To  dynasty,  to  chief,  to  him  with  whom  they  hire; 
•Or  homage  pay  to  leader,  master,  patron,  sire; — 
So  they  yield  me  the  choice,  which  my  soul  doth 

incline — 
With  rev'rence  deep — tow'rd  forms  wherein  I  can 

divine 

A  spirit  gentler,  purer,  nobler,  grander  far 
Than  all  the  venerated  I  have  mentioned  are. 


If  mov'd  by  cant,  or  by  cold  prudence  urged,  the 

power 

Behind  whose  mystic  sway  the  superstitious  cower 
I  might  reserve;  but  I  cannot  my  pen  with  awe 
Infuse  for  terrors  I  ne'er  dreamed,  or  dangers  saw. 
As  for  the  panoplied,  of  human  sort — tho'  clad 
JEn  purple — sceptred,  or  by  custom's  quest,  as  sad — 


MY   REVERENCE,  95 

"With  plume  encrest',  in  surplice  robed,  or  mitre 

cased, 
If  I  once  felt  an  awe  for  either,  'tis  effaced. 


Infer  not  ev'ry  form  and  phase  I  under-rate— 
I  neither  sentiment  nor  feeling  venerate; 
The  godly  I  have  oft'nest  found  in  simple  guise, 
In  untrained  thought  ideas  might  put  to  blush  the 

wise. — 

In  little  children — open-eyed,  all  innocence, 
Heeding  impressions  first,  of  no  experience, 
Save  that  derived  from  nature's  view,  sound  and 

contact  — 
I  see  far  more  to  awe  than  man's  maturest  act. 


My  eyes  shall  never  look  on  aught  more  beautiful — 
Endowing  me  with  sense  of  what  is  dutiful 
So  perfectly,  so  reverently  that  I  grieve 
To  think  of  the  small  strifes  which,  bitter,  inter- 
weave 

Our  work-day  destinies,  from  cradle  to  the  tomb — 
Than  tender  nurseling,    gentle-lisping    child,    in 
whom 


MY  REVERENCE. 


Perception  of  deceit,  remotest  glimpse  of  wrong 
Have  not  yet  germed  to  taint  the  good — new-born 
and  strong. 


For  such  how  deep  my  pity,  how  great  my  concern ! 
So  much  they  have  to  unlearn,  not  the  less  to  learn, 
Of  ways  and  things  so  vastly  unlike  what  they 


Perverting    instincts,   hopes — impelling    them    to 

deem 

The  crooked  path  unto  contentment  they  can  climb 
Only  by  flatt'ry,  falsehood,  treachery  and  crime, — 

That    ALL   MY.    KEVEBENCE    AND   AWE   I   FEEL   I   OWE 
To    THE    CONDITION   DOTH   PUEE    TRUTH,     SWEET     MERCY 
SHOW. 


NOBLESSE  OBLIGE.  97 

NOBLESSE    OBLIGE. 


Equipp'd  is  he  in  redingote, 

In  sportsman's  cap  and  gear — 
As  prancing  on  his  steed,  with  proat 

He  spurs  her  flanks,  while  near 
Him,  mid'  the  hounds,  there  gayly  ride — 

All  deck'd  in  bright  attire — 
His  retinue,  on  ev'ry  side, 

Whose  whips  and  horns  aspire : 

Noblesse  oblige. 

He  moves,  at  his  attorney's  wand, 

And  dips  his  pen  to  sign 
Of  his  broad  acres,  mansion  grand, 

A  mortgage  to  the  Jew 
Who  holds,  in  virtue,  all  the  fee 

An  auction  sale  would  show; 
But  then  "  Milord  "  his  friends  with  glee 

Must  feast — his  rank  sustain. 


Carouse  he  must,  and  yacht,  and  game, 

And  give  his  heir  her  dot; 
His  sire  and  grandsire  did  the  same — 

So  will  his  scions  do, 


NOBLESSE  OBLIGE. 

If  anything  to  pledge  remains 

Of  lands  or  jewels  rare, 
To  keep  the  style  blue  blood  maintains 

When  'twould  attest  its  brand. 

Noblesse  oblige. 

The  ball,  the  race,  the  hunt  they  lead, 

The  round  of  folly  run; 

Of  fox  bereft,  chase  aniseed — 
Their  kennel  and  their  stud 

To  keep  in  practice  for  their  guests, 
'Till  health  and  energy, 

And  fortune,  mock'd,  to  time's  behests 
Succumb — t'  attest  their  brand. 

Noblesse  oblige. 


She  droops  beneath  the  rafters  low 

And  plies  her  slaving  trade — 
With  stitch  and  seam,  while  idly  flow 

The  streams  of  wealth  that  ride, 
Her  casement  viewing,  to  the  park — 

To  catch  the  ev'ning  breeze; — 
Yet  toils  she  onward  'till  the  dark 

Enshrouds  her — heeding  not 

Noblesse  oblige. 


NOBLESSE  OBLIGE. 

He  wields  a  chisel  and  a  plane, 

Or  deftly  points  a  wall, 
Or  shoulders  hod,  nor  doth  disdain 

The  plainest  raiment  wear; — 
When  freed  from  work,  his  hearth  beside, 

A  sire — at  frugal  board — 
He  rules  six  waifs  his  counsels  guide — 

No  thought  of  mark  or  brand. — 
Noblesse  oblige. 

"With  sturdy  arm,  he  steers  the  plow 

And  plants  the  fruitful  grain; 
He  grasps  the  helm,  and  moves  the  prow 

That  braves  the  rocking  main; 
He  weaves  the  texture  of  your  coat, 

Nor  scorneth  his  hard  hand 
To  do  whate'er  men  list  or  note 

Attesting  labor's  brand. — 


He  delves  and  mines,  and  from  the  mill 
Of  nature  plucks  and  grinds 

The  rare  inventions  human  skill 
In  this  quick  age  hath  wrought 

To  make  the  lights  of  other  days 
Seem  lustreless  and  dim, 


100  NOBLESSE  OBLIGE. 

The  page  of  history  blank,    the  lay: 
Of  minstrel  crack'd,  when  sung 

Noblesse  oblige. 


Ah !   "Which  the  real  Noblesse  oblige 

That  men  should  recognize — 
To  which  the  heart  should  pay  its  liege — 

That  we    should  highest  prize  ? 
Are  they  the  noblest  idly  eat 

The  grist  from  labor's  strand, 
Their  lives  mis-spent,  themselves  to  cheat 

With  clam 'ring:"  Our's  the  brand — 
Noblesse  oblige !" 

That  is  the  true  Noblesse  oblige, 

Which  arbitrary  caste 
(By  ignorance  unfought,)  held  siege 

In  other  epochs — vast 
With  opportunities  for  greed, 

For  tyranny  and  vice — 
To-day  ranks  far  o'er  knightly  screed, 

Above  a  kingdom's  price  ! 

Behold,  in  honest  hearts,  and  liege 
To  fellow-men,  NOBLESSE  OBLIGE. 


SOUL  SINISTER.  101 

SOUL    SINISTER 


How  o'ft,  for  causes  yet  untold, 

Are  nature's  surface  beauties  marred, 
The  warmth  from  graceful  figures  barred 

By  artifices  cruel,  cold! 

How  oft'  do  wit  and  courage  bold 

Seem  joined  to  pulses  cannot  beat 
In  sympathy,  but  masked  retreat 

Behind  recesses  glooms  enfold ! 

How  oft'  do  eyes,  that  pathos  melt 
And  seem  with  clemency  alight, 
While  urging  good,  inciting  right, 

Yet  promptings  hide  that  Hecate  felt! 

Oh  !  Fatal  curse !  Soul  sinister — 

Obscured  and  vailed  by  gifts  that  lead 
Sweet  confidence  to  wastes  where  bleed 

Hearts,  to  which  none  may  minister! 

Shine,  Truth  Supreme!  Through  cloud  and  maze 
Let  break  thy  rays,  so  they  reveal 
How  knaves  thy  livery  may  steal — 

Thy  semblance  mask,  for  tortuous  ways! 

On  hypocrites  imprint  the  brand — 
The  sign,  deep-sinister — to  warn 
Against  their  pitfalls,  hold  to  scorn 

Their  virtues,  which  are  writ'  in  sand ! 


102  TRUST  NOT  APPEARANCES. 


TBUST    NOT    APPEARANCES. 


Judge  men,  my  son,  not  by  appearances,  but  acts — 
Not  by  that  which  they  say,  but  what  thy  do; 
For  they  who  play  their  real  parts,  speak  their 
thoughts,  are  few. — 

Indeed,  who  of  his  failing  would  betray  the  facts ! 

Tis  not  the  priest,  who  loud  descants — in  pious 

wrath — 
Of  thy  declining  grace,  or  with  moist  unction 

pleads, 
True  sympathy  of  heart  most    feeleth  for  thy 

needs, 

Or  knoweth  best  how  soothe  thy  spirit,  guide  thy 
path. 

'Tis  not  the  swaggart  trumpeter  of  actions  brave 
That  spurs  the  serried  host  to  victory  or  death, 
Or  by  his  presence  awes  the  mob  and  bates  its 

breath, 

Or  leads  the  van — the  weak  to  rescue,   faint  tb 
save. 


TRUST  NOT  APPEARANCES.  103 

'Tis  not  the  wheedling  pettifogger — armed  with 

calf 

And  legal  cap,  due-parceled,  bound  with  crim- 
son tape — 
In  law  most  learned,  tho'  he    contrive   the  fel- 

lon's  'scape, 

Snarl   judges  grave,  and  juries  move  to  weep  or 
laugh. 


Nor  doth  the  man  of  pomp,  or  plausible  address, 
In   fabric    clad    of   costly    loom — of   conscious 

wealth, 
Dwelling    in    frescoed    palaces,    and    vaunting 

health 

And  honesty    of   purpose,  yield  thee  truth's  im- 
press. 


Nor  doth  the  ferreting  physician's  sharp  probos- 
cis— 

Assuming  nature's  shad'wy  depths  to  penetrate, 
To  recognize  in  man  the  sick  from  normal  state — 

From  symptoms  always  guess  the  proper  diagnosis. 


104  TRUST  NOT  APPEARANCES. 

Nor  can  the  politician,  when  all  other  ways 

To  fraud  and  theft  (within  the  statute)  are  de- 
barred, 

For  patriot's,  or  sage's,  his  own  guise  discard, 
And  mount  to  heights  where  worth,  abiding,  meed- 
eth  praise. 


And  before  all,  my  son,  beware  those  syren  sweets 
Or  smiles,  behind  which  ever  lurk  such  cruel 

freaks 
That  robbed  of  his  best,  fondest  hope,  the  man 

who  seeks 
In  them  the  charm  idealty  raises,  contact  cheats. 


To  understand  the  man,  observe  how  throbs  his 

heart; 
Learn  whither  tend  his  thoughts,  and  mark  his 

ev'ry  deed, 
Distinguishing,   in    him,   the  flower    from    the 

weed — 

The  SOUL  of  him  from  that  in  him  which  plays  a 
part. 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN.  105 


Or  chirping  fancies  frisk  and  leap 

From  idle  whims,  and  seize 
The  effervescing  thoughts  that  sweep 

The  skies,  o'er  gale  or  breeze 
Or  whirl  with  eddies,  buff  with  tide, 

Or  pierce  the  vapid  mists, 
Or  in  the  coach  of  humor  ride, 

Or  mime  in  comic  lists. 


A  Pod's  Introspect,  (Page  i$). 


A  SHADE.  10T 

A    SHADE. 


Alone,  a  poet  gazed  upon  the  sea — 
Musing  of  man,  and  life,  and  destiny, 
And  of  the  wiles  by  which  they  mutiny 
Our  thoughts  and  aims,  desires  and  energy. 

The  while  he  mused,  twain  stars,  envisioned,  passed 
So  thoughtfully  before  him,  that  he  read — 
Himself  unseen — their  inner  depths,  trance-fed 
By  sea,  and  sky,  and  main,  in  reverie  cast. 

And  as  the  vision  glided  o'er  the  strand, 
He  knew  it  was  of  flesh — a  low,  pent  moan 
Its  heart  escaping,  heedless  of  his  own 
So  near — aspiring  sympathy's  warm  hand. 

Onward,  afar,  away —  the  image  moved, 
Leaving  behind  a  shadow  he  shall  wait 
The  substance  of  in  vain — his  soul  elate, 
At  times,  with   dreaming:  "  Might  we   not  have 
loved !  " 


108  OCCULT. 


OCCULT. 


"What  is't  that  animates  the  child 

Shrink  from  the  gloom  of  night  ? — 
With  quickened  pace,  side-glancing  wild, 

Throb  to  regain  the  light  ? — 
At  every  twig  that  snaps,  a  chill 

Feel  shooting  through  each  vein? — 
At  sound  or  creak,  that  breaks  the  still, 

List',  halt,  and  list'  again  ? 

What  is't  that  prompts  his  whistle  shrill, 

When  threading  in  the  dark? — 
The  empty  halls  his  terrors  fill 

With  sprites  that  bid  him  hark 
For  footsteps  on  the  barren  stairs, 

And  tappings  at  the  sash  ? — 
Why  doth  the  wind's  moan  crisp  his  hairs  ?- 

Why  faints  he  at  .a  crash  ? 


What  is't  that  goads  him  reach  his  hand 

Far  out,  as  if  to  guide 
His  way,  yet  shrink  from — as  a  band 

Of  fire— the  wall  beside, 


OCCULT.  109 

'Till  strained  with  groping  for  a  gleam 

Of  light,  mid'  direst  gloom, 
There  bursts — so  long  pent  up — his  scream: 

"  Pa !  Some  one's  in  the  room !  " 

What  is't ! — It  is  the  natural  dread 

Of  marvels  felt — not  known, 
Of  mysteries,  nor  live,  nor  dead 

Have  ever  solved  or  shown — 
A  consciousness  there  rules  some  Power, 

For  weal  or  woe,  beyond 
The  ken  of  man,  or  that  brief  hour 

"We  float  o'er  Life's  Profound. 


110  MIS-ALLIED. 


MIS-  ALLIED. 


Why  question'd  she  if  he  a  married  man, 

When  his  broad  rift  of  bald,  mid'  whiten'd  hairs, 
And  wrinkles — tokening  domestic  cares — 

Mark'd  but  too  plainly  how  his  youthful  impulse 


He  should  have  been  (of  that  oft-cited  ten)  the  one 
To  never  make  mistakes,  to  meet  the  fate 
Rare  born  of  early  wooing. — Ah !  too  late 

He  met  her  whom  he  should  have  waited  for  and 


Aye  !   Tho'  he  might  have  wooed  and  wed  a  score 

of  times, 

Tho'  vows  and  altars  from  his  side  may  bar 
Her  sanctioned  reign,  she  is  the  worshipp'd  star 
His  heart  the  sweetest  incense  wafts  e'er  moved  to 
rhymes. 


A   SIGH.  HI 

• 

A  SIGH. 


"  Alas !  You  did  not  kiss  me  ?   'Tia  too  late,  love, 

now  ! " 

She  murmur'd  in  the  glare, 
And  crowd — close-clustered  there, 
Knowing  that  they  must  part 
For  life. 

Why  could  they  not  their  love  by  soft  caresses 

show? 

Because  the  world's  wise  laws, 
And  social  rules — with  claws 
Of  iron — mark  the  chart 
Of  life. 

"Tis  best,  ere  with  the  grief  of  fancied  wrong 

aglow, 

She  lit  his  soul,  deep  yearned 
For  hers,  with  spark  that  burned 
So  pure  it  could  but  start 
In  life. 


112  FAIR  AND  FALSE. 


FAIR    AND    FALSE. 


Her  dark  eyes  penetrate  my  soul, 
And  all  my  senses  ravish 

By  their  light; 

Yet  I  am  warned  she  is  a  ghole — 
With  charms  tho'  decked  so  lavish — 
Bearing  blight. 


Her  smile  my  heart  doth  magnetize — 
Melting  my  weak  intention 

To  her  will; 

Yet  calm  reflections  stigmatize 
Her  face  a  sweet  invention 
Framed  to  kill. 


Her  tones  entrance — enraptured  bind 
Me  to  her  orders,  fettered 

Like  a  slave; 

Tho'  well  I  know  that  you  will  find 
Her  tale — with  shame  so  lettered — 
Hell  might  crave. 


FAIR  AND  FALSE.  113 

Her  spell  on  earth  may  never  break, 
But  in  its  path  destruction 

Scatter  aye; 

Still  hearts  betrayed,  for  her  sad  sake, 
Pray  that  some  better  part  may  wake 
In  her — for  faith's  instruction — 
Bye  and  bye. 


114  FIRST  LOVE'S  ADIEU. 


FIRST    LOVE'S    ADIEU.  / 


It  is  throbbing  in  my  veins,  love, 

Thy  hand-clasp  at  the  gate, 
As  blushingly  we  heard,  above, 

The  old  clock  strike — so  late. 

It  is  thrilling  through  my  soul,  love, 
That  last  fond  kiss  of  thine, 

Which  rose  from  lips  then  wont  to  move 
Eesponsively  to  mine. 

It  is  burning  in  my  heart,  love, 
That  last  fond  glance  you  threw, 

As  yearningly  you  waved  your  glove — 
First  passion's  sweet  adieu. 


IT   CANNOT  BE.  115 

IT    CANNOT    BE. 


You  cross  ? — Nay  !  but  anxious  a  trifle — 

Perhaps  sad,  at  moments,  to  think 
Your  friend,  from  whose  heart  you  would  rifle 

The  pulses,  is  nearing  the  brink 
Of  life's  dread  abysses,  where  stifle 
The  hopes  that  here  move  as  to  drink 
Of  love  from  pure  streams 
Beginning  in  dreams, 
To  oft'  end  in  utterless  woe. 

Ah !  'Tis  I  might  seem  cheerless  and  cross, 

And  tired,  for  impatience  hath  led 
Me  to  seek,  with  results  to  hope's  loss, 

The  pleasures  here  wanting,  since  dead 
Youth  and  sympathy's  faith — the  dry  moss 
Of  time  hiding  scars  where  love  bled, 
'Till  faded  the  dreams 
Once  gilding  life's  streams — 
For  joys  now  encouraged  too  late. 


116  QUESTIONING. 

QUESTIONING. 


With  half-reciprocation,  how  could  she  have  asked 
Him  to  inscribe  to  her — by  name — a  verse,  a  line, 
From  every  echo  of  whose  musings  gleamed  a 

mine 

Of  love  so  rich  that  in  its  rays  she  might  have 
basked? 

n. 

Will  the  grand  truth  yet  dawn  she  has  not  under- 
stood 

The  inspiration  lent  to  poesy  by  love — 
Whence,  flaming,  spring  his  symbols  of  the  pow- 
ers which  move 
To  faith  in  her — as  the  epitome  of  good  ? 

m. 

May  she,  when  this  vale's  pilgrimage  shall  seem 

complete, 

One  day  recall  what  he  was  judged  to  idly  sing, 
With  eyes  so  changed  that  they  shall  feel  awak- 
ening 

In  wierd  spheres — doubting  if  deserved  their  joys 
to  greet  ? 


QUESTIONING.  117 

IV. 

Or  can  she  brood,  long  ere  the  ending,  there  may 

be 

A  gulf  impassible — spreading  their  hearts  be- 
tween, 

Across  which  both  may  be  so  differently  seen 
Their  now  sweet  whim  shall  coldly  glare — a  phan- 
tasy? 


118  I  FAIN  WOULD  SOFT  PREACH  HER. 

I    FAIN    WOULD    SOFT    PREACH    HER. 

AN   ALBUM    LEAF. 


A  rhyme  to  arch  Emma? — 
Ah!  Dastard  the  pencil 

Would  dare  to  aspire ! 
Sweet,  petite  and  charming — 
(The  thoughts  are  alarming 

My  muse  would  inspire.) 

(The  dear  little  teacher! 
I  fain  would  soft  preach  her 

How  fondly  I  live 
In  hope  I  may  reach  her — 
A  moment  beseech  her 

Me  lessons  to  give.) 

Yet  now  that  the  pleasure 
Is  open  to  measure 

Her  virtues  in  verse, 
I  find  me  unequal 
To  utter  the  sequel 

My  longings  rehearse. 


I  FAIN  WOULD   SOFT  PREACH  HER.  119 

Why  another  word  say  ? — 
Since  my  heart  would  betray 

The  feelings  imbibed 
From  manner,  tone,  face, 
And  a  form  of  such  grace 

As  ne'er  pen  described. 


1UO  NOVEMBER  TO  MAY.. 

NOVEMBER    TO  MAY. 

AN    ALBUM    LEAF. 


Oh!     "May,"    why    did    you     sue    cold,    bleak 

"November" 

To  blight  a  leaf  whereby  you  might  remember 
How  poor  the  thought  whose  springs  must  soon 

dismember  ? 

Aye !  May,  my  little  friend,  fresh,  lovely,  cheerful, 
Mementoes  ask  from  visions  bright — not  tearful, 
And  younger  wits  let  make  your  album  "Dear"-full. 

For  if  the  boys  are  now  of  the  same  gender 
They  were  when  my  old  heart  was  naive  and  tender 
They'll  sing  you  "Sweet,"  nor  heed  ;    "Will  it 
offend  her?" 

So  take  your  Book;   nor  doubt,  in  months  ap- 
proaching, 

A  dearth  of  gallants  on  its  leaves  encroaching 
With    gentler    themes    than    I    dare     think    of 
broaching. 


BY  THE  SEA.  121 

BY    THE    SEA. 

TO    ,  A    COQUETTE. 


I  gave  my  promise — here  my  promise  keep — 
To  write;  so  now,  as  looking  on  the  deep, 
Encrested  sea,  beside  which  all  things  seem 
But  small,  and  you  the  smallest — aye,  a  dream 
Of  dwarfing  folly,  (waken'd  from,  'tis  true,) 
I  send  the  sketch  (so  idly  asked)  to  you. 


God's  mirror  of  the  stars — old  ocean  blue — 
Heaves  its  grand  symphonies,  my  senses  through 
A  thrill  of  awe  inspires,  yet  peace  and  rest 
Brings  to  my  troubled  heart,  invoking  quest 
Of  nobler  hopes  than  life's  small  compass  yields, 
And  holier  than  spring  earth's  barren  fields. 

Thence   landward   drift  my  thoughts — upon  the 

strand, 

No  grain  of  which  (tho'  few  will  understand,) 
Less  useful  in  the  universal  plan 
Than  bird,  or  beast,  or  fish,  or  fowl,  or  man, 
And  possibly  with  sense  (if  hid)  as  keen 
As  man's,  and  heart  as  kind — perhaps  as  mean. 


122  BY  THE  SEA. 

And  thence  my  eyes  revert  to  tender  eyes 
That  follow  mine,  as  falling  from  the  skies, 
They  pause  before  the  salt  waves'  broad  expanse, 
Sweep  o'er  the  surf,  and  meet  a  glowing  glance 
From  seas  that  mirror  love,  as  deep,  as  true 
As  ocean  gleaming  the  infinite  hue. 

My  hand  seeks  her's  responding;  gently  bends 
Her  form,  to  which  divinity  soft  lends 
An  image  fashioned  slenderly,  with  grace 
Vouchsafed  so  rarely  here,  methinks  her  place 
Would  be  more  justly  'mid  the  naiads,  crowned 
With  purer  laurel  than  in  our  world  found. 

And  yet  my  soul  to  her  outpours  its  love, 

The  while  she  bends,  each  word  to  catch  above 

The  breakers'  roar  and  sighing  undertow, 

And  echo  back,  with  cadences  so  low 

They  seem  an  angel's  whisper:  "  Love,  'tis  bliss 

With  thee !  " — her  whisper  sealing  with  a  kiss. 

Oh !  kiss — sweet,  pure,  entrancing !  Kiss  divine ! — 
Eclipsing  all  the  suns  the  skies  that  shine, 
Dwarfing  the  ocean's  majesty  with  love 
No  other  power  above,  below  can  move 


BY  THE  SEA. 

To  brave  the  elements — for  of  the  soul 
Is  love,  and  God's  Infinity  its  goal ! 


I  trust  my  lines  all  that  you  hoped  may  seem, 
Altho'  a  picture  like  to  read  a  dream 
To  one  whose  heart  has  never  felt,  as  yet, 
A  deeper  throb  than  moves  the  vain  coquette, 
Who  at  the  voice  of  lover  scornful  laughs, 
And  deems  more  tuneful  far  the  lowing  calf's. 


124  SHE'LL   UNDERSTAND. 

SHE'LL    UNDERSTAND. 


I  backward  look'd,  and  caught  her  glance— 

Her  glance  such  volumes  speaks, 
And  wonder  if  it  was  mis-chance 

That  beckoned  me  away; 
Or  was't  my  court'sy  doth  enhance 

Her  charm,  that  never  seeks, 
Or  sues,  or  courts,  but — as  in  trance — 

Its  vot'ry  holds  at  bay  ? 

Tho'  onward  I,  yet  backward  e'er 

My  thoughts  revert,  and  dwell 
On  that  weird  glance — from  eyes  that  stir 

The  soul  with  passion's  wand, 
And  wish  that  I  had  dared  retrace 

My  steps,  and  bravely  tell 
How  vain  the  struggle  to  efface 

My .  AH  !  SHE'LL  UNDERSTAND  ! 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN.  125 


Or  bubbling  quirks  the  surface  rise, 

To  ripple  for  a  trice, 
And  bring  a  smile  to  saddened  eyes — 

A  moment  loose  the  vice 
That  shuts  from  sympathy  its  kin 

Or  fellowship  with  mirth — 
Evoking  transports  that  begin 

To  mold  athwart  their  birth. 


A  Poet's  Introspect,  (Page  ig). 


MY  HOSTAGES.  127 


MY    HOSTAGES. 


Four  children,  ranging  in  their  years 

From  fourteen  down  to  nine, 
Group  round  the  board  our  ev'ning  cheers — 

My  faithful  wife's  and  mine; 
And  as  the  hours  whirl  fleetly  by — 

At  least  for  her  and  me — 
A  thousand  questions  oddly  ply, 

Amid  their  books  and  glee. 


One  boy  demands:  "Why,  father,  you 

Content  to  live  so  plain? — 
Of  wiser  men  there  are  but  few, 

I  trow. — Not  brilliant  Elaine, 
Or  bold  Ben  Butler,  spite  his  wink, 

An  abler  President 
Could  make  than  you — e'en,  sooth,  you  think 

Their  efforts  vainly  spent." 


128  MY  HOSTAGES. 

"Aye,  father,"  interludes  my  next: 

"  "Why  not  a  soldier  you  ?  " 
And  following  his  brothers  text: 

"  If  what  they  say  be  true — 
That  is,  the  papers — Grant's  a  muff ; 

You're  brave  as  he,  and  smart; 
And  if  you  only  cared  enough, 

Might  play  as  great  a  part." 

"Nay !  Pa  were,  better,  Vanderbilt," 

Breaks,  earnestly,  my  third, 
(A  girl,  of  course.)  "  Then  he  had  built 

A  larger  house,  and  stirr'd 
The  social  world — with  diamonds, 

And  richest  robes,  so  decked 
Us  all,  that  none  could  vie — his  funds 

Have  strown,  and  never  recked." 

My  youngest  had  not  ventured  yet 

Her  sage  admonishment;     . 
Nor  was  it  deemed  she  might  offset — 

To  their  astonishment — 
By  her  naive  speech,  of  simplest  word, 

Her  elders'  wisdom  rare, 
When,  "  PAPA  ! "  Her  small  voice  was  heard: 

"  I    LOVE   YOU   AS   YOU    ABE !  " 


MY  HOSTAGES.  129 

"  My  children,  she  most  hap'ly  reads," 

Spake  I,  "as  nature  prints — 
Who  faith,  and  love  for  kindred  pleads, 

And  on  their  lineaments 
Can  with  a  deeper  pleasure  dwell 

Than  in  the  false  acclaim 
From  fickle  hearts,  that  idly  swell 

The  requiems  of  Fame." 

"  Behold  your  fond  old  mother,  here, 

And  on  each  other  look ! 
Then  vision,  if  you  can,  the  year 

Before  her  hand  I  took 
Into  my  keeping,  with  the  pledge — 

So  long  as  life  should  last — 
'Twould  be  my  dearest  privilege 

My  fate  with  her's  to  cast !  " 

"  Her  fate,  my  boys  and  girls,  in  you 

Was  merged,  and  with  it  mine — 
Since  HOSTAGES,  your  mother,  true, 

Gave  me — THEIR  FEATURES  THINE — 
For  fortune,  fame,  society — 

The  gods  of  folly's  chase. — 
Aye  !  You're  my  soul's  satiety — 

My  care,  my  hope,  my  grace  ! 


130  MY  HOSTAGES. 

"  Fame's  fleetly  lost,  when  fairly  won — 

And  fairly  won  by  few; — 
Great  wealth,  by  honest  dealing,  none 

Have  gained,  that  I  e'er  knew; — 
And  it  is  custom's  phrase  to  call 

"  Society"  its  masks — 
Its  joys,  those  cloy — its  scenes,  those  pall — 

Its  aims,  those  honor  tasks. 

"  But  you,  my  children  !  You,  my  wife ! 

Leave  me  no  wish  for  fame — 
No  thought  of  wealth  beyond  the  life 

Of  HOME  (of  which  the  name 
Were,  fitter,  '  wealth '  than  that  which  ends 

Possession  with  the  breath,) — 

NO    THOUGHT    OB   WISH    FOR    AUGHT    AMENDS 
YOUK   LOVE SURVIVING    DEATH!  " 


BONBONI&RE.  131 

BONBONIERE. 

TO  "NONPAREIL." 


Dream'st  thou,  little  candy-girl, 

The  melting  glances  from  thine  eye — 
Sweeter  than  all  the  sweets  I  buy — 
Spin  my  emotions  to  a  whirl 

Thou  might'st  suppress 
With  one  caress  ? 

Thy  winsome  hands  my  bon-bons  bind, 
Pray  let  me,  sweet,  in  mine  enfold 
Just  long  enough  to  prove  their  hold 
On  my  poor  heart,  which  spurs  my  mind 
To  bold  confess 
Thy  power  to  bless ! 

No  ? — Then,  anon,  should'st  seek  a  friend 
From  out  the  crowds  that  daily  throng 
Thy  mart — unmoved  to  love's  wild  song, 
Wilt  kindly  deign  a  carrier  send 
With  thy  address  ? — 
(My  answer  guess.) 


132  BONBONI&RE. 

Fear  not  the  "  mallow's  "  thy  dear  fate, 
The  "jujube's,"  or  the  "  caramel's," 
Shouldst  yield  thy  charms  to  love  that  wells 
From'  founts  which  yearn  to  estimate 
Aught  may  oppress 
Thee,  and  redress. 

Should  I  devour  thee — with  mine  eyes, 
And  with  my  lips — thy  rose-bloom  rain, 
And,  love  protesting,  kiss  again 
Thy  hands,  thy  brow,  thine  all,  sweet  prize ! 
Could'st  thou  repress 
My  tenderness  ? 

Ah !  unto  pleasures  I  would  lead 
Thee,  love,  with  me  so  en  rapport, 
Our  hearts  should  vie  which  most  could  court, 
Which  best  express,  which  gentlest  plead 
The  truths  that  bless 
This  vale's  duress. 

Altho'  'tis  not  in  letters  writ 

How  souls — by  passion  moved — may  beat; 
Nor  can  the  lute's  soft  chord  repeat 
The  melodies  with  love  are  lit. — 
May  they  possess 
Thee,  Conjuress ! 


A    FEW   CARRIER-MOULTINGS.  133 

A  FEW  CARRIER-MOULTINGS. 

AGE   MATTERS    NOT    TO    ME. 

If  I  were  only  twenty-five, 

My  little  Nell  could  love  me; 
But  (as  near  fifty  I  arrive,) 

She  simply  says  she  likes  me ! 
(Or  is  the  word  a  blur?) 

Yet  I  love  her,  as  I'm  alive, 

And  by  the  Powers  above  me ! 
If  I  were  sixty,  vain  to  strive 

The  feeling  hide  that  strikes  me 
Whene'er  I  think  of  her  ! 

DOLLY   WOULD    NOT   WAIT. 

Ah !  Hapless  hour — decreed 

The  saddest  of  my  fate, 
Since  Dolly  would  not  heed 

My  spirit's  bidding :  WAIT  ! 

For  in  my  heart  there  burned 

The  fire  of  hope,  divine — 
Inspired  by  love; — I  yearned 

My  SUN,  to-day,  might  shine ! 


134  A   FEW  CARRIER-MOULTINGS. 

NO   TIDING. 

Is  she  ailing?  I  am;  for  no  tiding 
(Tho'  due  for  two  long  days)  of  her 

From  whose  eye  in  vain  I'd  be  hiding 
The  feeling  with  which  hope  doth  stir 
The  innermost  depth  of  my  heart. 

And  I  watch !  And  I  wait !  with  dull  longing 
(The  carrier's  step  may  be  heard,) 

To  receive  from  the  dear  hand  belonging 
To  me  (in  my  dreams)  but  one  word — 
To  soothe  my  tumultuous  heart. 

A   TANO-LEAF. 

The  bright  sea-beach  of  Long  Branch; 

The  breakers'  peaceful  woo; 
The  grateful  breeze;  the  guards'  launch; 

The  yachtsmen,  and  their  crew; 
The  man  from  town,  from  wild  ranche; 

The  children's  playful  coo; 
The  changes — at  each  turn — Blanche, 

Ne'er  rob  my  thoughts  from  you  ! 


DEPENDING   UPON  CIRCUMSTANCES.  135 

DEPENDING    UPON    CIRCUMSTANCES. 

A    MAECH    BALLAD. 


I  know  a  little  maiden 

Who  grieved  that  she  was  born 
When  all  things  seemed  upbraiden 

By  heaven — held  in  scorn 
By  earth  and  sky,  so  laden 

With  sleet  from  clouds  forlorn, 
I  blame  her  not,  since  Eden 

Her  graces  might  adorn. 

This  maiden  sighed  :   "  Why  was  I 

Born  in  the  month  so  drear? — 
I  hope  'tis  not  because  I 

Some  penalty  must  fear 
From  sins  or  crimes  ancestral 

My  generation  shade 
With  omens  borne  on  mistral, 

'Neath  glooms  nor  break,  nor  fade. 

"  I  pray  it  may  not  augur 

Hi-destiny  for  me — 
A  life  of  sorrow,  mauger 
The  charm  and  peace  I  see, 


136  DEPENDING   UPON   CIRCUMSTANCES. 

On  every  side,  to  others 

Vouchsafed  in  some  degree; — 

Alas !   This  March  air  smothers 
Joy  and  expectancy  !  " 

When  thus  the  maid  had  spoken, 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine — 
A  moment  seized  (ere  broken 

Her  current)  to  entwine 
Her  waist,  and  gently  press  her 

My  heart  on — whisp'ring  arch : 
"  She — willing  I'd  caress  her — 

Must  have  been  born  in  March. " 

She  coyly  pshawed  and  pouted; 

But  I  my  theme  pursued: 
"  The  month  must  not  be  scouted 

When  thou  first  chirped  and  cooed. 
And  know  thee  more : — If  routed, 

Poor  March,  not  I  had  wooed 
This  small  white  hand,  or  doubted 

If  e'er  thou  wouldst  I  should." 

"  In  March ! — Thou  born  in  March,  sir?' 

My  friend,  protestful,  asked; — 
(The  winds  you've  seen  the  larch  stir; 
With  equal  grace,  when  tasked 


DEPENDING   UPON  CIRCUMSTANCES.  137 

My  love  to  list',  and  answer — 
In  altered  tones,  she  plead:) 
"March  storms,  near  thee,  enchant,  sir; — 
I  knew  not  what  I  said !  " 

«  Aye,  sweet !  "  I  added,  <  <  Cases          , 

Are  changed  by  circumstance  ' — 
Since  hinge  on  fickle  bases 

All  incidents  of  chance. 
So  things,  if  missed  their  places, 

Will  seem  perplexed,  perverse ; 
And  ever  lost  are  traces 

Of  hearts — no  love  to  nurse. 

"  The  soul — and  not  the  season — 

Hath  faculty  of  tears; 
The  pulse — without  a  reason 

Beats  joy,  defies  the  years. — 
June,  without  thee,  were  dreary, 

Whilst  March,  near  thee,  is  heaven. 
My  life,  thou  guiding,  cheery 

Wakes; — vanished  thou,  'twere  riven." 


138  A   VALENTINE. 


A    VALENTINE. 


Of  love  accept  an  avalanche — 

Not  borne  on  glaciers  chill — 
But  warming  with  caresses,  Blanche, 

Thy  heart  and  soul  to  thrill — 
Sweet  currents  burning  to  bestow 

On  lips  of  cherry  hue, 
On  eyes  that  melt,  and  flash,  and  glow, 

On  dainty  hands  that  do — 
With  grace — what  love  did  beg  requite — 

The  single  favor  mine, 
Because,  perhaps,  the  first — to  write 

A  name — dear,  dearest,  THINE — 

Made  now  MY  VALENTINE. 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN.  139 


VI. 


Or  wild  caprices,  with  their  fumes 

And  vapors,  wierdly  glow 
Above  the  hum  of  labor's  looms, 

Yet  far  the  stars  below — 
In  frolic  verse,  or  rollic  rhymes, 

Wild  warbles  fife,  or  freaks 
Fantastically  ring  on  chimes, 

'Mid  laughter's  gleeful  shrieks. 


A  Poet's  Introspect,  (Page  19). 


THE  PORTENT. 


THE    POETENT. 


So  cheeringly  she  met  him  at  the  gate — 
As  if  his  greeting  she  could  hardly  wait, 
And  held,  as  her  fond  wont,  in  former  time, 
To  his  her  lips — sweet-perfumed,  as  with  thyme, 
He  thought  regrets  had  come  to  his  defense, 
Her  heart  resolved — with  her  recovered  sense — 
To  make  his  life  less  wretched  than  before — 
To  show,  earth  held  for  him  some  peace  in  store. 


A  dinner,  such  as  known  he  doted  on, 

Lay  spread  so  daintily,  so  noted  on 

Its  dishes  care  to  please  his  appetite, 

He  felt  as  if  had  entered  a  new  light 

Upon  his  wedded  fate,  'shamed  to  have  learned, 

So  late,  how  his  glum  shade   and   speech  were 

turned 

Forgivingly  in  the  remembrance  kind 
Of  her,  to  whose  'rapt  int'rest  he  so  blind. 


142  THE  PORTENT. 

And  such  an  evening !   Taper  fingers  dwelt 

So  softly  on  the  organ's  keys,  he  felt 

Borne  down  the  past,  beyond  their  honeymoon, 

Reminded  of  its  ending — all  too  soon — 

For  reason,  he,  impulsive,  could  not  mold 

To  her's  his  abrupt  ways,  could  not  unfold, 

Weeks,  months  ago,  the  blossom — see  how  sweet ! 

From  her  dear  heart  exhaling  love  complete. 


And  when  the  morning  dawned,  his  angel  rose 
Long  ere  he  could  his  torpid  lids  unclose. 
Descended,  from  the  breakfast-room  her  voice 
Invited  him  to  fruit — rare,  ripe  and  choice, 
Yet  whetted  more  his  palate  by  her  sigh 
At  sorrow  he  so  soon  must  bid  good-bye. 
Mournful,  she  kissed  adieu,  in  his  her  hand, 
When,  struck  her  thought,  as  by  a  magic  wand, 
She  spake:  "To-morrow,  sweet,  is  opening-day. 
You'll  not  expect  me,  love,  at  home  to  stay? — 

AND   MAY    I    HAVE   ANOTHER   HUNDRED  ?    SAY  !  " 


TWO  ANTIQUARIAN  MODELS.  143 

TWO    ANTIQUARIAN    MODELS. 

APBOPOS,  HOWEVER,    OF   ALL   AGES   AND    GENEBATIONS. 


THE   FIRST. 
HIS  ST.  VALENTINE'S  ODE — TO  HIS  GRANDSON. 

She  purred  so  naively,  my  weak  heart 

A  tender  palpitation  felt; 
But  when  I  stroked  her,  in  good  part, 

She  scratched,  and  raised  a  cruel  welt — 
The  Cat ! 

So  cunningly  and  soft  she  stole, 

My  earnest  moods  and  aims  despite, 

Into  my  humors,  that  my  soul 
He  volte  d  at  her  vicious  bite — 

The  Serpent! 

For  every  whim  she  wheedled  me; 

Yet  when  meek  I  would  humbly  ask 
A  grain  of  human  sympathy, 

She'd  kick,  or  balk  it — as  a  task, — 

The  Mule ! 

Now,  if  you  would  all  these  combine 

Of  Eve's  known  graces,  choose,  you  fool, 

A  maid — to  merge  your  fate  condign, 
And  thenceforth  brook  the  fickle  rule 
Of  cat,  of  serpent  and  of  mule. 


144  TWO  ANTIQUARIAN  MODELS. 

THE  SECOND. 
HER  ST.  VALENTINE'S  ODE— TO  HER  GRAND-DAUGHTER. 

Lone  and  silent  he  reposes, 

With  such  calm  insouciance, 
That  his  bed  seems  one  of  roses 

'Till  he  grunts — and  breaks  the  trance — 
The  Hog! 

Sinisterly  he  approaches, 

And  the  careless  list'ner  fills 
With  the  plaints  a  suitor  broaches 

When  he  coos — 'till  dart  his  quills — 

The  Porcupine ! 

By  his  own  voice  thrill'd  with  rapture, 

Wildly  cackles  he:   "  I'll  give 
Every  dollar  I  can  capture 

For  my  service  if  you'll  live  ! — " 

The  Goose ! 

Ne'ermore  seek,  through  long  instalments, 

Eomance  here  condensed  in  bulk; 
If  you'd  feel  this  life's  enthralments 

With  acuteness,  draw  some  hulk 
From  the  lottery  of  Hymen, 
On  love's  altar  slip  the  noose, 

And  be  hence  reminded  by  men 
Of  hog,  porcupine  and  goose  ! 


JENNIE  BRADSHAW.  145 

JENNIE    BEADSHAW.  g 


I 

"  Oh  !  who  was  that  girl,  so  dashing  and  blithe, 
Her  features  so  charming  and  form  so  lithe, 
Of  the  hazel  eye  and  roseate  cheek, 
With  an  air  of  pride  and  a  dash  of  pique, 
And  the  'witching  smile  of  a  gay  coquette  ? — 
Oh!  answer;  who  is  this  maid  that  I  met  — 
That  with  you  in  the  private-box  I  saw, 
A  night  or  two  since  at  the  opera  ?  " 
I  replied  :  "  Tom,  lovely  Miss  Jennie  Bradshaw." 

II. 

"Who  was  that  damsel,  so  gentle  and  sad, 
So  queenly  in  air,  and  tastefully  clad, 
With  the  melting  brown  orb,  of  hueless  cheek, 
So  noble  in  carriage,  and  yet  so  meek, 
With  a  seraph's  glance,  and  an  angel's  smile — 
Full  of  expression  and  free  from  guile  ? — 
Oh  !  who  was  this  maiden  I  saw  with  you, 
Arm-in-arm,  promenading  the  avenue  ?" 
"Ah!  Ned,   she   is    peerless    Miss  Jennie   Brad- 
shaw." 

m. 

"  Who  was  that  maid  at  the  Park,  by-the-bye. 
Of  the  sweet  modest  face  and  swimming  blue  eye, 


146  JENNIE  BRADSHAW. 

"With  daintiest  form  and  a  dimpled  cheek, 
And  a  gypsy  hat,  and  the  charming  freak 
Of  a  merry  laugh,  whose  echo  yet  thrills 
Through  the  '  Ramble's '  groves  and  miniature 

hills 

In  memory,  since  that  lovely  day  ? — 
Oh  !  who  is  this  lass,  my  good  fellow,  say  ?  "- 
"  Dear    Jack,   she's  celestial   Miss    Jennie  Brad- 

shaw." 

IV. 

"  Hold  on  !  "  cried  Sol,  "  I've  a  question  to  ask: 
Who  was  she,  pray,  in  the  dark-velvet  basque, 
That  entered  the  church  last  evening  with  you, 
And  with  whom  you  were  seated  in  Deacon  Job's 

pew? 

She  wore  golden  curls  that  shaded  a  face 
Refulgent  with  heavenly  love  and  grace; 
And  her  eye — an  intelligent,  beaming  gray — 
Made  cheerful  her  smile,  and  winsome  her  way?" — 
"  Why,  Sol !  My  divinity,  Jennie  Bradshaw." 

V. 

To  every  query  of  whom  he  saw 
With  me,  I  would  answer:  "Jennie  Bradshaw;" 
Whene'er  the  home-folks  asked:  "Whither  to- 
night ?  " 


JENNIE  BRADSHAW.  H7 

Jennie  Bradshaw  was  the  cause  of  my  flight; 
In  church,  at  the  theatre,  or  soiree, 
On  the  road,  the  avenue,  or  Broadway, 
In  the  Park,  at  the  opera,  ever  the  same — 
I  always  repeated  that  chosen  name, 
Responding :  "The   darling!    Miss  Jennie   Brad- 
shaw." 

VI. 

Hence,  many  an  unwitting  lass  received 
This  innocent  christ'ning,  and  ne'er  believed 
That  thus  her  charms  or  faults  were  united 
To  Jennie,  whom  the  boys  swore  I  had  plighted, 
Because,  whenever  the  question  was  made, 
I  repeatedly  answer'd  the  self-same  maid — 
And  her  name  had  ever  from  doubt  been  free, 
But  that  one  sad  night,  to  supper  with  me 
I  invited  some  friends  who'd  met  "  Jennie  Brad- 
shaw." 

vn. 

"  Jennie  Bradshaw  has  a  sweet  hazel  eye," 
Commenced  chum  Tom,  with  a  wink  and  a  sigh; 
"  Not  hazel,"  hints  Ned;  "  you  mean  a  sad  black:" 
"  You're  both  wrong,  boys;  it's  a  soft  blue,"  says 

Jack: 

"  It's  gray !  "  cries  Sol;  "  for  I'll  never  forget 
Her  pious  glance  in  the  church  that  I  met." — 


148  JENNIE  BBADSHAW, 

Thus,  at  my  board,  the  discussion  arose, 

'Till  at  length,  from  mouth  to  mouth  the  cry 

goes: 
"Let's  have  a  description  of  Jennie  Bradshaw! " 

vni. 

"  Dear  Jennie's  a  myth,"  I  finally  spoke : 
"  There's  no  use  longer  concealing  the  joke, — 
That  when  my  friends  have,  importunate,  tried 
To  learn  the  name  of  the  girl  at  my  side, 
Or  the  name  of  the  lass  with  whom  I've  spent 
The  morning  or  eve,  evasive  I've  sent 
Them  all,  sincerely  believing  the  same — 
That  this  of  my  rhyme  is  my  charmer's  name. — 
So,  boys,  fill  your  bumpers;  here's  'Jennie  Brad- 
shaw ! ' " 

IX. 

Without  drawing  the  moral  my  story  presents, 
I'll  keep  you  a  moment,  to  say  that  from  thence, 
From  the  night  of  our  supper  to  this  of  my 

rhyme, 

When  I've  been  met  with  a  lass,  every  time 
That  I  leave  my  door  for  a  quiet  call, 
I  witness  a  smile,  or  a  laugh  in  the  hall. — 
My  friends,  with  a  grin  or  nudge  by  the  way, 
Will  point  to  the  girl  by  my  side,  and  say: 
"  Prolific  and  charming  Miss  Jennie  Bradshaw !  " 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN.  149 


VII. 


Or  satire,  musing  Damascene, 

Hypocri  sy  lays  bare, 
And  falsehood  pricks  with  blade  so  keen 

That  honesty  seems  fair, 
Sweet  virtue  for  a  moment  blest — 

Alike  for  drones  and  plods, 
Rare  truth  aroused  from  stubborn  rest — 

The  scale  of  justice  God's. 


A  Poet's  Introspect,  (Page  ig). 


AMONG  THE  RECRUITS.  161 

AMONG    THE    RECRUITS,  k 


I. 

I  donned  my  hat,  when  read  the  news, 
And  'mong  the  soldiers  took  a  cruise. 
I  crossed  the  park,  where  spread  the  camp — 
Recruits  heard  curse,  in  quarters  cramp — 
At  mess  espied  them  munch  stale  pork 
And  hard-tack,  without  knife  or  fork — 
Caught  speech  of  distant  homes,  when  wept 
A  few,  whilst  others  fumed  or  slept; — 
Thence,  as  from  charnel-house,  I  crept. 

II. 

Threading,  anon,  the  noisy  street, 
My  sight  I  doubted  when  'twould  greet — 
The  first — Tom  Smith,  adown  whose  pants 
Coursed  a  stripe  that  shocked  my  glance. 
With  woeful  stare,  I  scanned  his  clothes, 
Exclaimed:  "Poor  Tom,  where  got  you  those  ? 
"  I  signed  while  fuddled,"  he  replied — 
As,  waving  an  adieu,  he  sighed, 
And  I,  reflective,  onward  hied. 

III. 

Before  I'd  walked  another  block, 
I  felt  a  poke  from  musket-stock; 


AMONG   THE  RECRUITS. 

And  Bradshaw,  ever  brimming  fun, 
Hailed  me  with  his  burnished  gun — 
To  my  grave  asking:  "  What  it  meant," 
Rejoined:  "I  hadn't  left  a  cent; 
"  My  business  dead,  no  more  could  find; 
"  My  pockets  empty,  fled  my  mind; 
"  In  fit  of  sheer  despair  I  signed." 

IV. 

I  wished  Jack  Bradshaw  best  of  cheer, 
And  parting — not  without  a  tear, 
Had  bare  renewed  my  promenade 
Ere  on  my  arm  a  grasp  was  laid, 
And  Johnson,  a  la  militaire, 
Saluted  me  with  pompous  air — 
Responded  to  my  question  why 
He  left  his  home — perhaps  to  die : 
"  D'ye  see  these  epaulettes,  my  eye  ?  " 

y. 

Leaving  Johnson,  arms  akimbo, 

Strutting  in  his  hotel  window, 

I  would  have  sped  my  way  through  town, 

But  was  arrested  by  old  Brown. — 

Brown  has  a  family  and  wife — 

The  last  a  torment  to  his  life. 


AMONG  THE  RECRUITS.  153 

Anent  I  spake,  lie  cried :  "  From  you 
Vain  to  conceal,  my  wife's  a  shrew. — 
Pray !  save  enlist,  what  could  I  do  ?  " 

VI. 

After,  came  Jones— Brown's  former  clerk — 
Embreeched  and  turban'd    like  a  Turk. 
The  while  I  paused,  he  screwed  his  eye 
As  if  he  might,  but  would  not  cry. 
His  face  was  pale,  his  form  was  bowed, 
And  on  his  forehead  sate  a  cloud. 
I'd  not  revert  to— well  I  knew — 
What  made  the  fellow  look  so  blue: 
Tho'  she'd  proved  false,  his  love  was  true! 

VII 

Of  the  many  "  braves  "  I've  met, 

Self-confessed  stands  each,  as  yet, 

He  'listed  desperate  or  drunk, 

From  thwarted  love  or  business  sunk, 

For  commission,  or  subsistence 

Or  to  'scape  a  damned  existence. — 

While  breath  with  smoke  or  liquor  teemed, 

He  brooding,  weak,  or  thoughtless  seemed, 

And  ne'er  of  coming  battle  dreamed. 


154  THE   MERCENARY   WOMAN. 

THE   MEKCENAKY  WOMAN,  m 


She  seemed  so  fresh,  so  bright,  so  pure, 

When  first  I  scanned  her  face, 
I  could  have  sworn — I  felt  so  sure — 

Her  heart  was  in  its  place ; 
But  ere  we  could  our  views  exchange 

On  half  a  dozen  themes, 
I  found  she  was  quite  out  of  range 

Of  my  poetic  dreams. 

I  did  imagine  hers  might  be 

A  sympathetic  heart — 
Her  eyelids  drooped  so  pensively, 

So  quick  the  red  did  start 
To  cheek  and  brow  whene'er  I  spake 

Of  dear  domestic  things; 
She  seemed — truth  owned — to  almost  make 

Me  doubt  less  she  wore  wings. 

Soft,  melting  eye,  and  gentlest  tone; 

Complexion  of  the  rose ; 
With  bust  of  Hebe,  and  such  a  zone 

As  waist  of  nymph  might  close ; 
How  commonplace  they  all  did  seem, 

When  dropping  but  a  phrase, 
She  suddenly  dispelled  my  dream — 

My  momentary  daze  ! 


THE  MERCENARY   WOMAN.  155 

A  wretched  sentiment,  expressed 

Through  beauty's  cherry  pout; 
A  look,  when  cruelly  impressed 

On  features  souls  might  rout; 
An  act  or  movement,  to  denote 

The  face  is  but   a    mask, 
The  soft  voice  but  a  syren's  note — 

Who'll  my  conclusion  ask  ? 

My  pretty  guest  did  but  observe : 

"We  never  could  agree; 
My  style  he  could  not  well  preserve, 

He  was  so  poor, you  see." 
Yet,  that  one  thought,  with  its  context 

Of  mercenary  pride, 
Led  me  to  pray,  the  woman  next 

I  met,  her  greed  might  hide. 

Indeed,  cracked  tones  and  crippled  form, 

And  features  creased  with  care — 
So  long  as  under  all  glows  warm 

A  heart — seem  far  more  fair 
Than  faultless  figure,  mellow  strain, 

Or  dimpled  cheek,  bright-hued, 
A  woman  masking — cold  and  vain, 

With  lucre's  thirst  imbued. 


156  HE  CAN  PLAY  ON  THE  PIANO. 

HE    CAN    PLAY    ON    THE    PIANO. 


He's  a  dwarfish,  curly  fellow, 
Cannot  brew,  or  baste,  or  knead, 
Plow  or  reap  the  fallow  mead, 
Hoe  or  plant  the  yielding  seed, 
Delve  or  trade,  indite  or  plead; — 

Then, — why  thus  his  presence  bellow  ? 

Charon's  muses  cannot  help  it; 

For  know,  this  bright  icono 

(Like  leper  in  a  bagnio, 

Or  kite  on  isle  guano,) 

Has  forte — at  the  piano. — 
"  Drown  his  thrum  !  "  The  styx  dogs  yelp  it ! 

He  can  play  on  the  piano; 

But  his  list'ners ! — Can  they  bide 
Agonizing  strains  that  tide 
O'er  the  keys,  where  wildly  stride 
Art's  rare  touches  ? — They'll  decide, 

With  me :  Give  praise  morgano  ! 


SACREDLY  INVESTED.  157 

SACEEDLY    INVESTED. 


A  MILLION  DOLLARS  ! — They  would  yield, 

At  four  per  cent,  (the  ruling  rate 
Since  Billionaires  have  won  "  the  field  " 

From  freedom's  sway,  and  mold  the  State,) 
Forty  thousand  dollars  yearly — • 

Tho'  said  principal  now  bears  naught 
Save  that  piety  which,  queerly, 

Thinks  "  put,"  "  call,"  and  "  straddle  "  bought 
For  "  futures  "  can  be,  in  GOD'S  TEMPLE. 

THE  CONGREGATION  must  have  deemed 

Their  Million  well  invested,  since 
The  Safry  of  their  Mouthpiece  seemed 

A  bagatelle — altho'  a  Prince 
Whose  titles  (in  more  than  one  land) 

Are  at  a  discount,  would  be  glad 
Of  per  annum  Twenty  Thousand 

Him  to  save  from  the  YERY  BAD. — 

AN   ELEEMOOSINARY   SAMPLE. 

Then,  again,  the  Undertaker, 

(And  his  satellites — the  ushers,) 
"  Classic  "  choir,  and  organ-slaker, 

And  that  band  of  milk-and-mushers 


158  SACREDLY  INVESTED. 

Yclept  as  "trustees,"  "deacons,"  "elders," 

With  the  sev'ral  "  incidentals  " — 
Not  omitting  the  waste  gilders 

Charged  to  "tracts  "  and  "fundamentals," — 
Make  SALVATION  quite  a  GAMBLE. 

Calculate  the  problem,  slowly: — 

Ninety  thousand  dollars,  you'll  find, 
Mark  the  "  chips  "  so  high,  the  LOWLY — 

(If  they  think  the  Eyes  of  God  blind 
By  the  spire  gold  has  erected, 

Or  from  heaven  all  save  pew  own, 
As  from  church,  by  saints  ejected — ) 

View  their  "  chance  "  a  very  rue  one. — 
So  the  humble,  Sundays,  ramble. 

"  Pshaw !  Damn  the  humble !  Why  heed  we 

Misery,  hunger,  want  or  thirst 
Out  of  wealth's  pale  ?  " — Gold  speaking  thus,  'curst 

Deems  his  priest  faith  meek,  barefooted, 
And  God's  Ministry,  'neath  sky's  dome — 

'Curst  all  piety  not  rooted, 
Hard  and  cold,  to  the  stones  that  tomb 
Hundreds  now  dead 
For  want  of  bread ! 
Hymns  he :  "  Scramble !  All's  a  gamble !  " 


TO  MY  CRITIC. 
TO    MY    CEITIC. 


Are  you,  whose  pen  would  annotate  a  text  of  mine, 
By  judgment  guided  one  whit  riper — more  divine 
Than  other  men's  ? 


Whose  gift  the  better  to  select, 
Than  you,  the  words  should  dress  your  thought  ? 

Would  you  reflect 
My  moods,  then,  or  my  whims  ? 

Sooth  grant,  with  my  sense  none 
Can  phrase  or  weld  accordantly  as  I  have  done, 
Since  no  machine  doth  work  like  mine  of  Jove's  in- 
voice— 
Or  will,  so  long  as  Procreation's  Pow'rs  rejoice. 

My  mold  distinct  from  your's  as  David's  from  St 

Mark's — 
As  Milton's  from  Dean  Swift's,  or  Scott's  or  Jared 

Sparks'— 
As  Byron's,  Bolingbroke's,  or  Goldsmith's    from 

Montaigne's  — 
As  Pope's,   or  Sheridan's,  or  Lamb's  from  G.  F. 

Train's— 


160  TO  MY  CRITIC. 

As  Bulwer's,  or  as  Thackeray's  from  Joaquin  Mil- 
ler's, 

Or  any  prosing  screed's,  or  rhyming  caterpillar's — 
Of  all  the  medley  memory  may  nimbly  trill, 
From  Clio's  phalanx,  life  and  legend  leave  us  still. 

Therefore,  my  bent  no  worldling  may  presume  en- 
join 

To  change  old  words,  remodel  new,  or  phrases  coin 
From  my  impress,  to  give  a  glimmer  of  the  loin 
The  brain,  called  mine,  doth  guide,  or  brain  my 

loin  doth  run — 
(No   matter  where    to   end,  or  wherefore   either 

spun,) 

The  loin  and  brain  my  lot — than  those  of  other  men 
More  true  to  me — of  equal  use  and  worth,  I  ken, 
To  the  Occasion  First,  the  Cause  of  them  and  me, 
Or  Aim  that  squirms  life's  puppets  in  the  span  or  sea 
Of  Jove's  Infinitude. 

To  me,  at  least,  mine  bring 
More  pleasure  than  from  other  web  or  woof  may 

spring — 

More  certainly  than  his  whose  pastime  is  to  sting, 
And  not  to  heal,  the  sufFring  sense — of  blunders 

ring 


TO  MY  CRITIC.  161 

The  birth — for  festers  root — for  flowers  snuff  that 

stale — 

For  stenches  grope  and  ferret — balms  refuse  in- 
hale.— 

Such  will  full  tribute  pay  his  morbid  spleen's  de- 
mand— 

His  humid  exudations  spread  with  rancorous  hand 
O'er  my  free  pages,  tributary  to  his  brand 
Not  less  than  to  the  reader  who  shall,  keen,  descry 
Herein  a  target  for  grim  satire's  mockery; 
Or  to  the  heart,  indulgent,  smiles,  or  laughs  in  glee 
At  conning  stanzas  that  affect  it  mirthfully; 
Or  to  responsive  thought,  from  which  my  verse 

shall  call 

Forth  grateful  echoes;  or  to  currents,  found  in  all 
So  varying  with  humors,  circumstances,  years, 
They'll  move  some  to  reflection,  some  to  jests,  some 


Alas!  Sir  Gloatful  Critic,?   How  could  you  survive, 
Except,  behold !  the  opportunities  arrive 
(As,  now  and  then,  rash  amateurs  rush  into  print,) 
To  pen  your  variations  on  the  threadbare  hint — 
Your  theme :  "  A  book's  a  book,  altho'  there's  noth- 
ing in't  ?  " 


I  TO  MY  CRITIC. 

Indeed,  so  often  troped  and  cited,  without  stint, 
By  you  this  pregnant  judgment  on  the  unfledged 

scribe 
Dare  brook  your  with'ring  censure,  stricture,  glance 

or  gibe, 
'Twould  be  your  blazoned  motto,  and  surmount 

your  crest 

If  heraldry  had  not  been  flouted,  put  to  rest 
With  other  barb'rous  relics  of  earth's  feudal  age, 
As  critics  will  be,  in  the  next,  who  carp  and  rage 
Amid  the  scandals  mark  our  growing  daily  page. 


Meanwhile,  Jove  save  your  shadow  for  the  place  it 

fits— 
As  truly  your's  as  clown's  or  drudge's,  bard's  or 

wit's 
Are  their's  respectively.     As  dear,  as  due,  your 

right 

As  an  appendix  to  my  mime  of  Pean's  flight 
To  hang  your  knotted  lash,  as  my  own  restless 

boy's 
To  tail  the  Japan  hawk  with  which  he,  sportive, 

toys,— 
Especially,  since  each  his  plaything  so  enjoys 


TO  MY  CRITIC. 

To  see  cavorting  in  the  winds  that  sweep  the  sky — 
The  boy,  because  he'd  have  his  captive  soar  and  fly 
Beyond  the  stars — if  storms  might  wait  and  cord 

might  last; 
And  you,  my  critic,  that  a  gale  might  swell— to 

blast 

Tour  kite,  and  drive  it  earthward — to  be  thrust 
Mid'  briars,  or  swamps,  or  stones,  or  trampled  in 

the  dust. 


My  conscience  frank  and  free,  contentedly  I  wait 
Each  new  diversion,  frown,  crank,  freak  or  turn  of 

fate- 
As  I  have  humbly,  hap'ly  learned  to  do,  of  late, 
Invoking  Jove  may  suffer  you  to  wisely  rate 
My  Lays,  as  they  shall  merit,  in  His  broad  estate — 
Assessed  and  taxed,  according  as  they  may  belong 
To  marsh  or  fallow — with  His  harvest  land  along, 
Or  rankling  His  salt-meadow— and  not  worth  a 

song. 


THE  LAYS  OF  A  BOHEMIAN.  165 


NOTES. 


a.  (Page  32.)     First  printed  in  the  American  Art  Journal,   Sep- 
tember 17,  1881. 

b.  (Page  54.)     "Mv  SPRING  is  HERE"  was  first  published  in  the 
N.  Y.  Daily  Graphic,  March  22,  1884. 

c.  (Page  72.)     This  poem  originally  appeared  in  the  American  Art 
Journal,  June  25,  1881.     With  the   exceptions  noted  below   (and  a 
few  others  unnecessary  to  her  particularize),   "  MY  SANCTUM  "    is 
the  author's    earliest    metrical    essay     contained    inthese    pages. 
Its  interest  may,    possibly,  seem  confined  to  his  surroundings,  or 
personal  to  his  situation,  at  the  time  of  its  appearance — when  his 
offices  (as  well  Sanctum,  or  study,)  pleasantly  faced  Union  Square 
on  the  west. 

A  congenial  neighbor,  at  the  period  referred  to,  was  Mr.  Thorns, 
the  proprietor  of  the  Art  Journal — to  whose  publication  •'  MY 
SANCTUM  "  was  naturally  contributed. 

d.  (Page  80.)      "!N  MEMORIAM  "  was    an  impromptu  (tho'  very 
inadequate)  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Miss  Alice  C.  Earl,  formerly 
Secretary  to  the  author,  who  died,    of    hereditary   consumption, 
on  September  nth,  1884,  and  whose  obsequies  were  observed  from 
her  late  home,  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  on  the  I4th  of  the  same  month. 
Within  two  years  prior    to  her  decease,  both  of  Miss  Earl's  par- 
ents had  succumbed  to  the  same  dread  malady ;  so  that  her  death 
may  be  said  to  have  been  pre-determined,  no  less  than  premature. 

/.  (Page  114.)  This  trifle  was  originally  published  in  1865— tho' 
among  the  earliest  of  the  writer's  essays  at  versification;  and  it  is 
now  accessible  through  its  having  been  cut  from  print  and  pre- 
served in  the  scrap-book  collection  of  a  friend. 

g.  (Page  145.)  "  JENNIE  BRADSHAW,"  produced  first  in  the  N.  Y. 
Weekly  Mercury,  in  June,  1861.  is  accessible  under  circumstances 
similar  to  those  last  above  mentioned. 


166  NOTES. 


k.  (Page  151.)  "AMONG  THE  RECRUITS"  was  published  in  the  N.Y. 
Sunday  Times,  in  the  summer  of  1861,  when  the  fever  of  patriotism 
burned  at  so  high  a  degree  that  it  was  deemed  a  necessary  precau- 
tion, by  the  manager  of  that  paper,  to  editorially  disavow  all  respon- 
sibility for  its  expressions.  A  few  incidents  to  its  appearance 
(which  might  be  historically  interesting  and  pertinent,  in  other 
connections, )  it  is  not  required  to  detail  here. 

The  rhymes  (for  they  may,  at  least,  be  so  designated, )  annotated 
f,  g  and  fc,  are  (with  the  exception  of  his  first  metrical  composition 
— in  August,  1856,)  the  author's  only  attempt  at  versification  prior 
to  1 88 1,  which  have  been  preserved.  The  exception  parenthesized 
— called  "THE  MISSION  PRIEST" — was  printed  in  the  Mercury, 
of  which  the  literary  department  was  conducted  by  Mr.  Newell  (Or- 
pheus C.  Ker,)  in  1861.  Indeed,  with  these  exceptions,  all  the 
earlier  offspring  of  the  author's  muse  (as  well  as  prose 
manuscript,  and  the  plans  or  germs  of  verse,)  were  destroyed  by 
conflagration,  in  the  month  of  April,  1878.  His  verses,  at  that  time 
lost,  were  a  small  part  of  the  writer's  accumulated  work — literature 
having  been  tormerly  his  avocation  for  a  livelihood.  These  state- 
ments are  made,  not  in  any  mood  of  regret,  but  as  matters  of  fact — 
to  which  maybe  added:  With  the  three  exceptions  above  indicated, 
the  verses  contained  in  this  volume  are  published — as  they  were 
written — for  the  author's  personal  diversion,  as  will  (or  may  have 
been)  inferred  from  their  tone  and  substance,  or  their  want  of  either 
or  both.  And  with  the  exceptions  annotated,  none  of  the  verses 
herein  contained  have  ever  before  appeared  in  published  form  or 
print. 

m.     (Page  154.)     "THE  MERCENARY  WOMAN  "  first  appeared  in  the 
American  Art  Journal,  of  December  10,  1881. 


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